I wait for cigs to appear in a tiny tea can
I buy things I don't need, not out of greed
He gets off late at night, quite near three
I'm not good at loving anybody, any man,
Anything

Why must I love the poets, the painters, the piano players?

I dilute, I digress, as he touches my chest
Soft permeating whispers of spurious love
Pretending for a reason to reach this octave
I'm somewhere distant, somewhere I can rest
A mess

Are artists meant to be with artists? Do they bring out in each other what is darkest?

He lies tired, I wide awake with moon eyes
I curl my ivory back to his kisses and fingers
My cold heart does nothing but shiver
This is a sad type of a music, reprise after reprise
I sometimes cry

And I can't get close, cause I can't relate.
No brain train is the same,
but mines off the rails and no one knows what it's like to ride,
******* great,
*this is why I don't date.