And the bus was dark.
He said 'I love you'
And not that fucking car.
I still remember the night we met,
Steaming passion in festival toilets.
He left his wallet beneath the septic tank,
I found it after the drugs had worn off.
His name.
His address.
Pictures of him with another woman.
His social security number.
I've moved in next door.
The pot is set to boil.
He said he loved me
And not that fucking band.
No comments:
Post a Comment