Once we spoke of a room,
A fairly small room,
We could both run to.
I don't quite know what
You sought out of me,
All I wanted was to call
Your arms my home.
But it's quarter past midnight,
And I'm in our room alone, again.
I'm betting that, out of me,
You never wanted more
Than pictures and some words.
You don't need me like I need you --
You never did.
Maybe it's time
I finally stop needing you too.
All you've ever wanted was an interactive fantasy, wasn't it?
- - -
I hate you for doing this to me, but you'll just say it's my fault for caring.
All I am is weakness.
- - -
Remember the one poem out of the hundreds I've written you that you actually asked for? I take it back, especially the lines about beck and call.
- - -
**** this ****, I need to forget for a while.
- - -
