Why do you give the impression that you'd rather not be loved?
You almost tell me not to bother.
Why are you neither one thing nor the other?
Why do you fluctuate between ticks and crosses,
Won't you confirm or contradict my guesses?
I know you're real, which means you work, pay taxes,
drink and suffer hangovers.
I know you know what sex is.
Still, there is something in you that never mixes,
something that smells like the air in silver boxes.
It makes me suddenly afraid of asking,
suddenly aware of all the things I'm risking.
No comments:
Post a Comment