I get nervous when she comes my way,
her cigarette smoking in the glass ashtray.
My reflection in her emerald eyes,
I wonder what the look stretched across her face implies.
She's the kind to make me lie awake
contemplating what's to gain from this
and what is at stake.

She's known love at least once before,
and the feeling is one which she can't ignore.
It's a sentiment we both must share
judging by the way my fingers move through her hair.
But my heart is ******* in knots.
A good love is just that -- good,
until it's not.