It’s Heathcliff’s fault, and River Phoenix and Pete Doherty didn’t help much. It becomes a habit.
Of course, no one is good or bad, there are only shades and flaws.
She doesn’t need him to spear a mammoth.
She’d like to talk about books and ideas and feelings. Yes. Those.
But she stopped believing, and she chose her own cave.
The shadows in there are livid and writhing.
So, she covers them with cave paintings of the bookish soulmate she doesn’t deserve.
Crushing her fear into red and ochre.
Drinking whisky on her own.