by Nick Gisburne
You win. You always do. I can’t compete.
Your arguments are mightier than mine.
I crumble in predictable defeat.
When called upon to counter, I decline.
Is this the way two lovers have to be?
Is this how you and I will spend our days?
The second-placed contender, always me,
Degraded by the glower of your gaze?
I plan. I plot. I know what I must do.
Without a way to fight, a way to win,
Without a way to worry, without you,
My life will be the battle I begin.
Tomorrow, let the sunrise break the day,
And shine upon my future, far away.
