How is it that every day—
that every, single day—
I leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired?
How is it that I run away,
craving the thrill of heart-play—
leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired?
How is it that I cry and lay—
staring across some foggy bay,
plan mind-caresses
and await the passing of two days?
How is it that every day—
that every, single day—
I leave your presence,
and feel that there is more to be desired;
when heavy-hearted that someday—
a near, eminent, creeping day—
you'll be happy with another,
and it won't matter, anyway?
When I offer my hand to you, smiling;
you slip the ring onto another's;
a vase breaks—
and I'm left at the altar
of a wedding I was never invited to
and know that there is more to be desired?