Why do we turn our back on each other, after a few slipping kisses.
your stab of dagger reminisces:
Who would have thought, you’d bury me in my sunday best,
Sheathed in a bed sheet, we once shared our lustful sweats on.
Flowers you grow in the garden where we made love, now you sow onto my tombstone.
What do we despise?
Our night is not tender. Our night is pitchforked fights.
Together we solemnly vowed in spites.
In sickness and health, but we’re too sick,
For better, for worse, but we’re worst.
Why do we love,
with love that is more than a love.
