A quick bus ride, a trip to pick up the pills we needed, to heal my hurts, to cleanse me.
Soup and Victorian fashion kept us full and thrilled all night.
We talked of our lovers,
of how this hurts for me.
Why is he so selfish? Such a child, wanting love
but not responsibility.
Never responsibility.
I love him, he loves me, but what else is there?
Why is the call of flesh so strong? It's lovely to move in pace with another,
but not with him.
With him my wonder lays in music, and love.
The time he sang me to sleep,
when we waltzed to a child's record player,
songs we have written,
letters exchanged,
our simple desires for the future.
My dearest friend, you sat and listened to me
as I spewed out words of hate,
you reminded me that I was driven by fear and pain.
Yet,
Yet,
Who is he to hurt me so much?
He should have been the one holding me,
not you.
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