I dreamt again
that you gave your love
to another man.
And when we brushed
past one another
in the isle of a bookstore
you didn’t even acknowledge
my existence.
In your hand
I noticed a crisp copy
of this book, although
I had yet to write it.
Tucked neatly within its
pages was this poem
that I had yet to think of.
But being clever and
of little morals,
I wrestled it from your grip
with you shouting and swearing,
and promptly ran from the store
thinking all the while,
this better be worth it.
the lazy photographer 