You said that I was complicated. That I was too much for you. But then you went around looking for someone who could sink their minds into the pool of ink that your words created. And none of them were good enough. No one else wanted to get drenched in the shower of your whims and fantasies. I know you poured a little more champagne into your glass, everytime someone deviated from your train of thoughts and you wished it was me instead. You wished them to revert back with the same amount of passion in their words, that would make you lose your sleep in pursuits of ponder. You'd want to be ravished with words so intense, it would want to make you paint new galaxies in your dark room ceiling at night. But all those women were so shallow. They talked more. They understood less. And you could never quench your thirst by drinking from their rivers. I guess the water of the well that poisoned you , didn't kill you after all. You were half alive. Alive enough to get your high from the tart taste of the poison. And you loved it. But you were never truthful enough to yourself to admit it.