He asked me what I write about.

The way the world finds a way to be cruel.

The way my father found love in another woman.

The way my sister found beauty behind tear-stained pillows.

The way I watched my best friends heart shatter like cheap glass, in a cheap bar, on a lonely night.

The way the only boy that I had ever loved didn't know how to love me back.

The way water feels when I wash the regret away.

The way the regret won't wash away.

The way my mother wears pain in the bags under her eyes.

The way my bags weighed me down the night I packed them to leave.

They way I couldn't leave.

The way my mind holds me hostage in a white padded room.

The way I hide my feelings hoping to sustain myself.

The way my feelings are like empty picture frames because they don't like to take pictures.

They way that love doesn't live here anymore.

The way that love has called but I am afraid to answer.

He asked me what I write about.

In my corner booth,

in my corner room,

with my cornered thoughts.

The way happiness still lives here.

The way I found it on a Wednesday night.

The way this stone hear is slowly becoming vinyl.

The way the vinyl is becoming life.

The way his mind is so complicated, intriguing, complex.

The way I admire his thoughts.

The way I hide my smile when I am near him.

The way that I can't help but to smile.

He asked me what I write about.

You. I write about you.