Love me, hate me, bleed me dry.
Kiss me, touch me, make me believe
In happy endings and meant-to-bes.
Push me, pull me, **** me softly.
Make me sober, make me salty.
Make me miss you, make me love you
Until there's nothing left
But endless packs of half-smoked cigarettes
And bottomless bottles of Hennesy on my lips.

She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.