I think I made you up inside my head.
We sit in our corner of pale pink and green, the evening falls around us in street lights and spots of yellow. I wonder what we look like, I wonder if a poet would see us and think we are lovers. I wonder if we are lovers, I wonder if I am the poet after all. Colours fade away, into you, into your kisses, your teeth sink deep into my skin. A mark of love. A threat. Your head on my shoulder, our hands entangled, as the last shreds of my sanity slips away from under our fingers. You think my hands are beautiful. We kiss again, you breathe a little heavy. You ask me to come home with you and I say no, not today.
I think I made you up inside my head.
I come around the next time, we make love to Cohen by candlelight just for the fun of it. Your sheets get in our way as we hide our bodies underneath, chequered, green and yellow and orange. We dance naked, our bodies don't fit well, they have worn away and smell of other loves. I kiss the tattoo on your back. You laugh, at the empty expanse of future that lies before us like a desert. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I think I made you up inside my head.
I take my time dressing so you would catch a little more sleep. I wake you up to say goodbye, you say you will walk me to the bus stop. I get a little sad at the thought of you, alone in the darkness of your place. We hold hands on the way and as the bus turns around the corner I realize I never want to let you go. I tell you so, you touch my face and ask me to come back, but I don't think either of us really meant it. I take the bus, and I wave from the window as it rolls away. You ask me to be careful. I wonder what it could mean.
You send me a love song, shot on your phone camera in black and white, you and your guitar. You are drunk and slur your words a little, and I hold on to the sound of your voice and cry into the pillow every night. I know then what it is to love with everything you have. I am your love song, fading away into the summer air. I am the colour of the curtains in your bedroom.
I think I made you up inside my head.
The next time I see you it rains. You look like your heart stirred a little every time you looked at me, and I know what it is to be loved. You step on puddles like a child. We walk under the same umbrella, two clichés trying to write their own story. We are the spirits of the city, we retrace the steps of lovers of the past who have fought and died for their loves. I wonder if we are lovers. I wonder if we are poets.
I think I made you up inside my head.
You have this full length mirror back at your flat. I figure you are rich. My legs are short, my breasts have started to sag a little. I can't remember the last time I had a bath. You hold me from the back and tell me I am beautiful, but I don't believe you. Your hair has grown past your neck. I kiss you and kiss you but I think I have drifted out of my own reach by now. You disappear.
I think I made you up inside my head.
I used to dream of you a lot. I dreamt of your hair under my fingers, of your lips on my skin, of chequered green and yellow and orange. I dreamt that we had run away to the sea. I dreamt that the earth had engulfed us. I dreamt that we had become stars.
I think I made you up inside my head.
You find me, like you did the first time. I think I have seen you before. Your hair is a mess and I want to run my hands through it. You brush your hand against mine and I ask if you want to get away. So we escape, to our corner of pale pink and green and the evening falls around us in spots of yellow. I wonder if we are stars, as you hold my hand and I watch my sanity slip way. That was the last time I saw you.
I think I might have made you up inside my head.
