|Photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven|
he wears his misery
like a too long overcoat.
(He adores her.)
He is her plaything,
she is fickle, she doesn't care,
she will finish it tonight
and that’s for sure.
(He knows it.)
She plays her games.
Sultry, she pouts,
twirls her finger through her hair;
whispers come to bed with me.
When it’s over she says it’s all over
and he cries.
I don’t love you anymore she says,
wipes sad tears from his sorry eyes.
She cleaves him to her breast
I don’t love you little puppy dog
she whispers callously.
he puts on his overcoat and leaves.
Thanks to Tess at The Mag for her excellent prompt.