I’m sorry your wine glasses
are all broken, and you’ve
had too many tears spilled
in intoxicated faux love

sorry that
kissing you in the shower
and jumping on your bed
doesn’t bring a breakthrough
because we don’t talk much
like shy kids who can’t
seem to grow up
except for
you know what
and we don’t need babies
except for ourselves,
so baby, talk to me
like a librarian in
the romance section
with an index of love, and
read me a lullaby and
I’ll rock you to sleep

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