If you're a lover, then where is your passion?
Where is your interest in me, your
curiosity of my affairs?
If you're a lover, then where is your attention?
Any given day, you ignore me for the TV.
You turn and say, though, you burn for me.
Given how you wait to be prompted,
is it hard to imagine I don't feel interesting?
If you're a lover, when's the last time you expressed
at least some minor urge to fuck me?
How am I supposed to buy a charade
when I'm the one who must wind the key?
If you're a lover, why do you never write
about me, but when you're sad?
Where is your urge to hold me, as I've held
you cradled for all these years?
Don't you think I ever need protection or intention
without a beggar's plea?
If you're a lover, then why do you forget my presence
until I remind you that I'm alive?