When I write about you, to you,
Why am I the man I was to you?
Never the man I have to be,
The proper and mature me.
Sharing sexist jokes and wet dreams,
Coffee-tinged kisses, muffled screams.
Did I grope in the dark, also in sight?
Was it too rough when you held tight?
An act, a god-damned no-encore play,
Even when I pulled the plug our last day.
In the dark, it’s still our old ways, laugh and talk and kiss,
With few truths and lots of lies, the immature love I miss.
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