That I would have been better off staying true to form
and been the cad and the player
the Great Distraction
instead of a human man with an aching heart
seeking love -
that's what fucks me up.

That she is to me what I have been to so many other women,
Carnal but kind,
Close but beyond true touch,
Ever considerate of a breaking heart
But not considerate enough to avoid the breaking.

That I am without control,
Without much choice beyond watching her in the flesh
Or missing her from a distance,
Wondering despite my rational demands
Which cock she is casually smiling over tonight.

That I am childish and chained to notions of love,
And no longer above the inclination, the affectation,
but ruled by it,
Tasting the bitterness of my own medicine
And still, even still, seeking a way to turn it all around
in vain.

That I am older
and she is younger,
That I am wiser
and she is naive,
That she is logical and sensible,
and I am wild and wishful.
That I am prone to sink at night into thoughts of death and god,
in fury,
in love,
insignificant.

Woman,
I am stamping my feet and screaming at the moon.
I am the object of my own derision,
as much as you are the subject of my obsession.

Woman,
I am beside myself with grief
because I found a good reason not to kiss you.
Because you acted with that reason.
Because you refuse to act at all.
Because I have lost my faith,
Which was never something real.
Because you're sleeping around,
And we could fuck
But found a good reason not to.

There is only one, futile song I sing today.
It does not do much for anyone.
It goes no place,
Reveals no thing to no one.
It has one line:

I want you.