For the first time
in a long time
I'm so scared
to be alone.
I'm scared you'll roll out,
and leave me on my own.
And what do you do
when you're
pushing thirty,
and life's left you thirsty
for love and stability?
And how do you tell that
to a handsome hillbilly?
If it was corn,
beans or guns,
action movies or trucks,
it'd be easy to discuss.
I'd have no problem
bashing welfare,
or the system **** suckers.
I'll happily sit
for hours and *****
about world affairs,
or gossip about others,
but how do we talk,
about us
as a couple?
And where is this going?
And should I be showing
any glimmer of hoping
that I'm not just
warming
your bed
for another brunette?
How come
You don't stay hard,
If I still stay wet?
Am I overreacting?
Like a stupid girl, lashing
at her own insecurities?
Or is there a shadow
of boredom I see.
I'll say this much,
at least;
If you really do love me
I'm like a mogwai;
there are careful instructions
that'll keep me
from destruction.
You've got to reassure me
that I'm not only
your only,
but that you'll always
wanna hold me.
That despite a gold ring,
and all those permanent things
I'd never ask for,
I've got to know
that It's me
you love
and adore.
That you're happy.
Not complacent.
That you're satisfied.
Not satiated.
That I still turn you on,
that you won't do me wrong,
that you think about me,
find yourself
missing me.
That you still want to kiss me.
That I've had an impact
on your steely, stone heart,
and that your big arms
are grateful
wrapped around me
in the dark.
Because from my side,
I'm sold;
not initially,
no,
but you grew on me,
sneakily,
like damp wood
grows mold.
And to be frank with you, sir,
I'm still a bit leery
of your seeming ability
to take me
or leave me,
and your closed-lip approach
on making it known
that you'll always love me
is troubling.
And, so,
If you won't..