|
pressed unto us |
|
flesh still sickly sweet |
|
with scents of love |
|
but lost of this lust |
|
exactly what becomes of us |
|
just like me |
|
they long to see you on your knees |
|
but all these he's into she's |
|
irreparably slow these hopes we've sewn |
|
and so we forego |
|
what pleasantries we've grown to know |
|
hand in glove |
|
for lack of the words, we called this love |
|
but now they've cynical slurs to define what it was |
|
that we have done |
|
the tone that she chose shows |
|
mother knows what's become of us |
|
and should i start to show |
|
well heaven knows we'll soon be sussed |
|
false alarms, might i have meant to do you harm |
|
but somehow i found much to distrust |
|
in what once ushered us |
|
through months of hurried hush |
