It's sad to know I rely on a stupid thought
This itchy feeling of being asunder
Makes me wonder if I must be
Obsessed to dwell on you
You or the thought of you?
Your legs or your head?
And I hear your presence race
Over the incessant owl asking me
Who-who who-who
you make my face red and my heart pound
with the heater on and the curtains drawn I shun the sound, around
The room like a ghost, like a big
wooden beam on my chest
Or a heavy hide, a bath of heat
As I lie crucified in bed in the light of the moon
the thud-thump thud-thump like a crow
You make my fondness of you grow
To the point where you are indistinguishable from the thought of you
Who-who who-who
And that's something I don't want to do.