We are mad as birds, in love in a dark home.
I wished I could be you.
In the drunken daze of submission with aggression,
in the Nicaraguan touch that has turned blue.
Touched by the cold trained tongue that you have become.

Both of us not right in the head.
Both of us not quite ready for bed.

You sit high on your thrown these days.
I weep for apologies at your feet and
I wish for months for your gilded heart
To take some time and remember me.
I remember in the beginning you were not so mean.

Both of us have made our bed
Both of us will die in it.