“Does this mean you’re going to write about me?”
Such a foolish thing to ask.
As if you hadn’t been my muse for the last few months we spent together
In a lovely, blissful world that only you and I understood.
As if you thought that all I wrote was heartache and pain and not the love
We shared like a secret treehouse built for two.
I thought, at least, Isaac knew better,
If not you.
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