I'll leave you like I've left every fascination.
I’ve said this. I’ve done this. A countless number of times. And then I've expected you to find me. There's no winning here. Nobody wins.
You'll go to her with your old camera, hung across your chest and quietly take pictures till you feel you've both had enough. She has toppled your universe by the time she asks you whether you want some camomile. You're lulled by the sleep she has mixed in the tea, and that whispery nasal voice of hers. "I have a deviated septum" she says and you hope she never gets it fixed.
The cigarettes are over and you have to leave. You have to get back to your world of dead poetry, because damn it, you've worked so hard to build it.
I don't think I have anything new to say. It's okay if you want leave early. I understand the boredom. I'm bored as well. I'll never make it through this.