I’m supposed to be wallowing in my loss and pity

Not writing longing poems like a lovesick puppy

Don’t run off and take anything seriously, I’m told

I pretend the others have just as much hold as you



What a ridiculous sight I must make of myself

You’re feet underneath me, reading Victorian novels

And I know when you say you’re not saying something

You’re really saying everything I ever wanted to hear



We’re not supposed to have a song or trade furtive looks

Late night conversations like a couple of teenagers

Just a couple of polar opposites who are charged magnets

Don’t bother asking if I want you to, it’s always yes



I’m not going to pine for you to text anymore (that’s a lie)

I’m not going to write anymore poems about you (that’s a lie)

I’m not going to crave when you open up to me (that’s a lie)

I’m not going to pretend this is just no strings fun (not a lie)



You’ve made me into the cliché of a man starting over

Who isn’t supposed to care about what you think and feel

I’m just another of the number enchanted by a muse

And I can't wait to see what you make of me next