something about the crackling

baritone over the telephone

made me fall in lust all over again

but I forced myself to remember

the wasted time spent pretending

to love you.

and all the wasted time you spent

pretending to be someone I should love.

it was a made up fantasy

of sex in a closet:

let's kiss in the dark and pretend that

your jeans didn't get pulled back up

just before

well, you remember the rest.

I think I was the best you ever had

and you agree.

I never finished what I started,

it's a trend of miscommunication.

lust falling apart into the

broken arguments. my mouth is tired

of you.

well, you know the rest.

it was a made up fantasy

of hands up my shirt:

I'm ticklish.

excuses to run away from your

fingers exploring the curves of

skin where my tan line stops.

well, you made up the rest.

let's pretend I'm not a living piece of

x-rated porn in your lusting hands

and this isn't just 5 more minutes

of phone sex for you to feel good about.

I'm not a piece of ass.

and I'm not yours anyway.

well, you can figure out what I say next.

but here are those two words with more weight

than the sensual I love you.

it's over.