It’s not you, it’s me…
OK it is you, but can you blame me?
You don’t give me room to breathe,
Always there in the air
Never wearing the shapes I draw in you
Or the words I splutter out of my mouth
And whenever I think you’re listening
You blow the wind in my face
So I have to shout over a hurricane
to get a message through to you.
And you elude me in the most interesting places
Where I want you indispensable
Underground, underwater
In space, I have to fill myself with fake you
Just to take in all the beauty.
Personal space means nothing to you
We like to be claustrophobic as a race,
That’s why there’s pollution about the place
Traffic congestion and cigarette indigestion
We’re sick of you being the only option.
Maybe just a day apart,
So we can rethink our relationship
And evaluate why it’s important
To not suffocate trees or factory workers
Citizens of big cities and those wall flowers
That get punched on lunch break.
I’m not calling you selfish
I just could do with one day where you aren’t next to me
Inside me, over my head, under my footstep
Just a little privacy…
OK maybe that’s lunacy,
Just promise you’ll look away when I’m naked…
Syllable Syndrome 