I am in love with somebody else’s Superman.
When she bleeds crimson, you brush it off say that it’s fine.
It blends in with the cape. I can take it to the laundromat after this.
When she’s cold you set yourself alight to keep her warm, make excuses for her, shield her from life’s realities.
I know you come to me to escape from your reality.
Because for that few hours, you can be
selfish normal and put your happiness first.
For eleven minutes, you are not burdened by your past nor worried about the future.
You come to me because I am your dealer and you are a happiness junkie.
And though you tell me that you no longer love her, that these acts are merely out of obligation
that you are doing this as penance for your mistakes and bad choices,
I know that whenever your phone lights up, it’s a bat-signal with her name on it.
And you will leave me in a mess of clothes and unanswered questions: if I meant that much to you, why can’t I make you stay?
Don’t get me wrong, my leaving is not a sign of weakness.
If I could keep you by my side with my superhuman might, I would.
But I am no Lois Lane and I don’t need a superhero.
I am leaving because she needs saving more than I do.
Was I asking for too much when I said that I wanted something just like this?