If that waiting wasn't love then
i don't know what is. But love
don't hang around indefinitely,
bleeding and believing.
Pulling me off the street back then
you'd said beneath chieftain cheekbones
you'd saved me.
I will never call you mate, oh no,
like friendly mechanics with friday hands.
You washed your hands on me.
Another week gone, no need for explanations,
i'm content to haunt you, in a pleasant way.
And i won't be bitter, that'd be too obvious,
i'll be more lovely than i was, just to spite you.