two people occupy me, both on short-term tenancy, one in raptures, so besotted, happy with the fate i've been allotted of doting on a fickle heart, [the denial proving quite an art], the other steeped in nasty thoughts, Hating Love, convinced i ought to drink and drink until i spew, drown out all sounds which come from you but betraying my you you you obsession in sulks and youthful condescension, denying, as i vent my spleen the mes that i am torn between
