Love is frying chips forsaken in a bedsit.
I sit alone, longing to be needed.
I sit alone, angry that he didn't call.
Because I text him midway through a pomegranate
Thinking of his scratchy mullet growing without me.
When he phone rings I'm smug
And he backs off in fear.
Love is being sucked into my company forever.
Love is holding hands with everything already said.
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