>you talk about freud and how he intrigues your
mind with his sexual innuendos and ravishing
philosophical sentences that have no end.
you adore oscar wilde and dorians depressing self
reflects in your polished one word replies,
carefully ended with a full-stop. emoticons non-existent.
you say soulmates never die, believe in endless
romance, long for that perfect moment, for that
spark that ignites the touch.
i dont acknowledge soulmates, its only despair.
1890 was a bad year for literature,
and freud was on cocaine.
tell me this:
what are you doing with me?