God knows I love you. And you don’t even know me.
I meant to put it in a different line.
And you don’t even care.
You’ll never read it.
What are you doing now? Buying a cow. Or milking milk.
I meant to put the words in a different order.
It doesn’t matter, you’re not looking.
You’re sitting on the sofa, facing the camera, holding a glass of milk.
You’ll never take a sip, I know you.
I love you, so much.
For this kind of nonsense, for others.
For your wickedness, for the heart rending you provoke.
There’s not a girl born as sharp as you.
As a matter of fact you’re a woman by now.
You won’t let people call you that.
Woman is for the old.
Old is for the dead.
Dead is for the books.
You’re an enemy of the books, Enemies, a love story.