these nights of sleeping like brother and sister warming the cold in my room i lie on your side of the empty bed breathing in the last of your perfume
and the stars spiral into dust and the moon sings in the sky my hands grip the silent pillows as the lightlines start to die.
it is empty here and i am alone, returning to my clean brushed steel life i grow drunk on the cotton wool quiet i become swallowed by the endless night. you play the game without penalties but the losers bear the cost i am just another notch on your bedpost as you are on mine, a particularly deep, dark, blood-red slash in the wood.
i keep your secrets
you know mine
even though i trust you only as far as i can throw you.
yesterday it was early, today it is late, and there is hole i can never fill.
i am too old to be playing with dolls i am now the toy i am now your toy. but in the end, it returns to my empty bed, of not caring, and not loving, and friends who look like monsters.