Pouring through an hourglass; she’s always “‘in love.’”
I look at her and see some of the stars I lost—years ago.
I never believe a feeling or a word she says,
But that’s nothing new.
I sit up before it all feels too familiar.
There’s a soliloquy of mine floating around,
I can’t quite catch it; I wouldn’t know what to do if I did.
The moment’s crisis is all but lost on me.
My ****** ego and pretentiousness.
I go home to forget any of it ever happened,
And I spell out “lust” where I mean “love.”