Spell

They say words are spells
And so I write this with my blackest ink,
You will not leave me on a Tuesday, or the first time you learned about my depression.

You won’t leave me in Shangri-la, after an argument about what I’m wearing;
You won’t leave me in a foot spa in Hanoi, and I won’t get lost crying, trying to find my way back to our hotel.

You won’t leave me for a good woman,
You won’t leave me for a better one.
You won’t leave me for Jesus Christ, or the Blessed Mary, ever virgin.

We won’t spend sleepless nights screaming how we’re not meant for each other.
I won’t lay in bed awake at 1am, soaking up the remnants of our last fight, while you’re on the other side of bed deep and drunk in slumber.

I will not spend countless nights trying to memorize every detail of your face, every curve and crevice of your back;

The smell of your skin and your breath of nicotine.

If words are spells then this I write,

You will choose me forever and I will love you no longer.