after Vanilla Sky

 

you had to take the stairs, break
my heart, never be mine,
sell the records, drink warm red
wine, fly solo to Lisbon,
pretend I taught you Portuguese,
not become my husband,
pick up the clarinet and give up
after two weeks, you are
so good at doing that, finally read
Saramago like I told you,
make sourdough and realise how
easy it really fucking is,
have a quick fling with a sexy drug
dealer, jump from a bridge
but not a very high one, you know
which I mean, join the gym,
run a marathon, grow a beard, get
as strong as you’ll ever be,
delete our selfies from your phone
to make more space, miss
my calls, they were butt dials anyway.