"I'm desperate and too proud to admit it"
That's the only thought I can formulate that makes sense.
I can feel your amusement with me slipping away
It burns, yet I still wait for your call to come play again.
You're handsome, I suppose, but not mesmerizing in the least.
I'm sure you could be if you wanted more than warm thighs.
Always saying there's more to it than that, but you've yet to show me
And each time I'm more disinterested in the hollowness of your lies.
Then what are we doing?...What am I doing?
Letting you take up my space and my time?
Thinking you could fill something I felt had been empty for too long.
But your company is lonely, tone-deaf and rhythm-less
Sing your duets with yourself; I don't care to hear your songs.
I tried to find something in you that I honestly didn't want with you
And the more I dug, I only found what you weren't willing to give
But I still craved it, thinking you, a shadow, could give me relief
But you're empty, formless, useless, and you cannot satisfy my fill.
If I know all of this, then I must be desperate.
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