When you were god, I was a writer.
We acknowledged our dubious realities
And I never told you
That I knew you were just a fantasy.

You capture my image again and again and
I wove your name into the margins of my notebooks.
We fabricated ourselves a world of thesis statements and pseudophilisophical arguments,
And revealed in the hypocrisy of documenting our own human condition.
We played our roles, we looked the part.
We quoted dead writers to fill the silence that was growing between us.

We masked our insecurities and made promises,
Plagiarising our emotions directly from the pages of your obscure anthologies,
That we would keep one another.
We spoke of ironic juxtapositions like the twin forces of genocide and genesis
When we kissed.
And I never once trusted you when you said you loved me
But I swallowed your love and burned for more.

And I’ll misremember the sky that stretched
Above us as we lay on our backs,
In a haze atop the fire escape landing.
And the way the sunlight kissed your skin
When you lifted your fingers to my lips.
We inhaled one another
And exhaled the smell of free people.
The blue smoke cumulating around our ears
Should have been the first sign of oncoming storms,
Unwritten by the greats and so unexplored by we.

In the silent orifices between the curves of your words,
I set you free.
In the messages that mingled with my tears
when you whispered them into the space between my collarbones,
In the darkness where I lay with unburied half-thoughts and disintegrating opuses
I wished I could uncreate you.