Our love is an old love,
a one sided passion that surpasses the soaring sun and the ageing oceans.
You have given up sleeping,
gazing at me as the night turns to day and the day returns back to night,
frightened that I will find my way back to the wilderness where you found me.
Please don’t be in love with me.
I have pleaded and reasoned,
but, unlike the seasons, you stay strong,
never leaving, so having no need to return,
and I fall asleep without a word,
without a kiss,
simply asking for you to change your mind.
You tell me that you’re in love with me,
and it’s the same old game.
Darling, what did you go and do that for?
What a foolish folly from an old fool with everything to lose,
and nothing to gain from getting in my callous carousel.
You’ll attract more flies with honey,
and more of hunnybee with diamonds,
so I cut up your credit card and robbed you in the night,
so that I wouldn’t be available for your purchase.
The lady is not for turning over and waking up with you,
and the lady is not for lunatics,
your insanity prevails,
and so does mine,
on another cycle of self hatred.
I often wonder how it feels for you,
butterflies and birds camped out in your core at the thought of me,
because these are the things I cannot taste or feel,
and when I stop fighting,
and let you find a way back in,
it is wicked, wanton self destruction.
I want to be hurt,
feeling nothing but burning on my skin,
soaked in shame and sin,
crying a chorus in time with your sighs of satisfaction.
I fall to pieces in the peace of afterwards,
my dinner dancing up my throat and down the porcelain as you wait outside,
trying to tell yourself that it’s just my nerves, as usual.
I’m the sweetest siren in your address book,
entirely because I am always unavailable,
but knock on my door, you do,
leave your longing on my voicemail, you do,
because you want to be hurt as badly as I do.