Maybe it was the only kind of love she'd ever known; taking the night train and boarding alone. To see his face in the pouring rain, somehow eased up all her pain. The words he said rang in her head, but nonetheless he took her to bed. The way he made her clothes hit the floor, made her feel like there was nothing more. But as the night faded, in his arms she stayed. And everthing made it perfect, the sadness delayed. As the sun came up, as she said goodbye, "I hate you," she whispered, her usual lie. She knew she'd be back, knocking on his door. For the pain and the passion, there was no cure.