Drawn to him like bees are to pollen
The nectar drips from his lips down to heaven

If god has sympathy for the fallen
I'd curse his name and say amen

Whatever he was in our stolen moments
Between back hugs in the kitchen
And him not wanting to talk or listen

It all wouldn't matter in the end
I was never his lover or his friend

No meaning he said
But with no feelings
We're better off dead

Like gentle kisses on the forehead
And warm cuddles on the bed
Nonchalance lies in the touch of the red-handed