I am sorry for pestering you this weekend.
It was filled with cigarettes and anxiety about drinking.
I was hanging on a tight rope of hope to hear your voice.
Don't call me boring.
Especially when I die clutching your photograph.
I am a love letter away.
But I won't break your name.
The Roman future doesn't care.
If I shut my eyes.
Or if I break my cave.
But I'd like to think you would.
All I really care about.
Is whether you think about me.
So tell me your thoughts about liberty.
And blood.
I'd break the law once a week.
to feel your ill.
I am still under you.