wait, what about the song?

I finally found your theme song,
you know, all about French exits

and men stumbling over you,
back into boys it seems.

and now I have got some stupid
hunger, or call it some craving

for the skin you had let me taste,
the neck, lips, your inner right
thigh.

honestly it seems like a waste
fucking around that last night–
high–

but still very tight and lucid,
me on a bed corner, raving

over what I want to do too.
nothing left to redeem

for affection. it’s been too long.
and you don’t speak “no.” you text it.

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