I think I loved you last night
not like a girlish fantasy or a wet dream.
It was something weirder and scarier
and dumber and far more obscene.

Last night you were still in love with somebody else,
and once again I was not the main character
of my own life's dreary play. That's why it was so surprising
that I even pressed close to you -
moreso, that you did not pull away.

You laughed and you blushed when I told you that
you were my favourite person on earth
and I in turn was like a pigeon, cooing and preening.
We spoke lyrics ripped straight from the radio:
pretty and affectionate, comforting and bold,
devoid of any real substance or meaning.

You asked me why anybody would even love you.
You knew already, but I rattled off some list which
I don't remember. Except for the fact that I was sure I would
always understand the answer better than you do.

Then just like that the scene changed,
and suddenly you were on the ground, eyes closed tight,
to block out the sun and the world.
She was singing a song to you, a song whose
words I also knew;
but I would never sing them,
or indeed, ever be sung to.