Lying half naked in bed
thinking about all the lovers I haven't had
and sometimes it makes me mad
that they probably aren't even sad
cause there's always someone else they could have met

Filling myself up with solitary sensuality
I keep asking how much of this can be reality
when we were never one but lovers in singularity
and only in late-night-born words there was sexuality
merely a disturbance of tranquility

And as I lay there in the warmth of my solitude
Hot waters find an opening in unfulfilled gratitude
they leave my eyes, then run down my spine in some strange interlude
and I'm getting scared of an emtpy platitude
of feeling like a ****** *******

Because my spine is not endless
and neither is the beating of a heart kept loveless
I'm tired of phrases, of having to confess
to love that seems only to know how to obsess
that tries hard to be profound but then is still just heartless

I try to see some good in the fact
that my spine is therefor still somewhat intact
and beyond this tiring and ongoing act
I calm myself, 'There's still time to find', I'm committing to the pact