I am done riding the echoes of your voice,

Breathing in between rising waves of anxiety,

Rushing over hot cinders to please you.

Yet, I will continue to stare at this thin wall

Until it grows two eyes

Crafted from shavings of gold

To mimic yours.

Memories will fall

In place of tears,

I become the spinning blackhole,

And your eyes the galaxy.

I will not join your collection of easy trophies

Trapped in the back of your thick skull.