Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when you haven't invited me?
You float declarative plans in the air,
and I'm left to jump and catch them, hungrily,
eagerly in a craze to see you, to feel you,
to hug my thighs to your waist desperately.
If I do so, I'm left waiting for my plea to be seen.
Waiting for you to be clean.
Waiting with no self esteem.
But this is our love.
And I will oblige, and not be stubborn
like you call me.
I will succumb to your efforts to be "cool
calm and collected," and unaffected by me.
Is that not it? Is it because you fear of rejection?
You tell me you don't know how to ask for my companionship.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me.
It's not like I'm not your lady, and you, not my man.
How can I ever come with you, love,
when the air is a bitter cake around us?
Our comfort is a milk we squeezed from my *****,
and now I've only drips that your sighs of frustration
soak up every time I express my desires.
I've learned to swallow my words,
because I am lady, and not mama or baby, but the trauma
from the near past has made me wary.
No, I do not want to wait indefinitely for your ideas to play out.
For you to accept my plea to come with you.
I rather know when to be ready, so I can be myself,
and not be your beg-to-come pet.
Does it bother you that I want to be treated with respect?
Or from you, is that too much to expect?
Am I too much, is this too much, what is too much in your head?
Too many questions, to you, enough is said.
You treat me with silence, and I treat you in bed.
Whose anger is healthier? I don't know either.
But lets start with questions we can both answer.
Do you want to come with?
Would you accompany me?
Care to come along?
Yes,
I'd like you to join me.
You could be my date.
Come with me, love, so I can come with you.