The polka-dotted sidewalk,
beginnings of a rain-soaked street
The dampness of my socks means that my last pair of shoes have finally given out and left a hole in my soul
My gas light came on yesterday morning, so the wet socks will have to do, as I make my way to you
Eyes, then hands, then lips meet
Words pour, but I stop them short
Mental faucet, won't say more
The tap is too hot, and it always tastes the same
Pass it to you, I only play the game
But you see as I hide my bosom storm
You say "Don't cool off. I like your warmth"