Resting:
Mouth wide,
Hands tucked.
A lust:
So ripe,
Satisfied,
Now ******.
Stale,
Stale,
Stale.
Awkward, sour, mouldy and pale.
And I won't brag of you there,
As she does of him here,
There is no need,
We're us,
Our intentions sincere.
And there's something so sterile about their romance,
Their drama.
Lost in translation.
Hot air,
Hot air,
Hot air.
And it's a joy to sit here and think of you,
Whilst she talks of him,
And genuinely not care.


December 2010