Rucksacks on our backs, passports in hand.
Paris first, since that’s the city of romance.
Take a walk around la tour Eiffel and capture a selfie, hashtag it goals for bants.
I pictured us taking strolls along the Bankside, visiting the Saatchi gallery scoping the latest piece of art.
See you were my art, my muse, from a blank canvas I created you, to be the perfect man in my image, shaped and moulded you into fit into the guy I was looking for but my perception of who I thought you were was flawed.
(I made you an idol.)
I allowed the idea of You something to comfort me 2am at night, the one that would capture my thoughts in the middle of me reading on the tube, I lost myself in you.
See, I didn’t have to send you nudes to know that I was compromising myself, putting pound signs on my worth (this masterpiece), allowing you to place your bid, name your price when I would, stay up all night, sacrificing sleep, stalking your tweets and sending indirects just to grab your attention.
Hoping to build a connection and maybe get some type of affection…
I had me changing myself to satisfy your needs, to be aesthetically pleasing to your eyes, yeah you were that guy I was infatuated with…I imagined us skin to skin,
Brown skin so sun kissed,
All your qualities I could list, but hey, let me not go there…
And let’s be fair, that wasn’t really who you were.
I tried figuring you out amidst the ambiguity,
I said I liked someone with a story
but I realised that most time they need to be left alone
Dig up the seeds that were sewn
And their souls let free to roam…
And now, I’ve learned from my mistakes, of creating idols for my satisfaction.