four o'clock and my watch beeps twice,
reminding me i should be asleep.
but this jet lag slices through my slumber.
two lips.
four lips.
no tongue.
my kissing cuts through,
but humiliation and your sickingly sweet recovery comments
hurt more than your silence would.
i turn over and the passion has died.
i walk down the stairs of a barn
and the passion has died.
you drop me off downtown,
and the passion remains conviently gone.