The bedroom is now our
tomb
With only dusty sunlight
And debris of days of sex
And our bodies,
Forever tangled
We live like half lives
With eyes only for each other,
As the rest of our lives die.
For our souls were misshapen
We believe that each other
Can cure us
So we need not make the journey
To make ourselves complete.
We creep out to see if it could work
In real life,
If this could be the sort of love
That may hold hands
And last until
We get old, ugly and fall apart.
We bolt back to our tomb
Where we may die to the world
And only have each other
For while we try to cure ourselves
Our sweet lust and obsession
Only makes us sicker.