Don’t Be So Mean To Baby, ‘Cause Baby’s So Good To You

You must be made of stone,
because you seem so unmoved,
unimpressed by my infatuation,
just a wry, dry laugh as you grab my waist and grab a kiss from the lips of your special girl.
I drown,
dreaming of you in the shadow of the sun and the mood lighting of the moon.

I drown in your doe eyes,
dining on your divine ambition,
enthralled by all the things you dream about,
because you made a better woman of me, the moment we kissed.
You’ve made a monster too,
a desperate damsel,
who will die without her lips on every inch of you,
dying for another taste,
dancing in my drama,
watching your death stare climb over the frame of your glasses,
as you struggle to work through my disruption.

I am as annoying to the state as a striking worker,
as adorable to you as a plane full of puppies,
but like the state,
you stay with your head stuck in the sand,
ignoring my cries for attention and affection,
and I spin out,
circling your sandy grave with a solemn sob.

I list the longing looks I give you,
counting up your debts as you strip back my depths,
until I am aching, on the floor before you.
You play it painfully cool,
and sometimes, I wonder if you care for me at all,
but then you kneel down next to me,
paying back my longing looks with lingering kisses,
and I feel like I am existing in a dream.

You are a high that I hunger for,
forever.