You told me that I write with 'angst'. I respond, telling you that I write with words, and leave it to you to add the angst.
You’d set your own happiness on fire for the attention
I don’t follow, I lead. Why date sheep, when you’re married to the butcher.
Having had the last laugh, he saw the humour in his ultimate death. In living, others, he would never find out, just got to laugh a lot longer.
Having freed himself of her lies some time ago, her silence was the last word she spoke to him.
You are my first thought in the morning, the last in the evening, and the many thoughts in between.
He knew no love song or poem would ever be written for him; not even those written in his own words.