Filling your ego is the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. (half-true)
All the way to the brim the gold liquid rises; faster and faster it goes
the smart, sophisticated things you say. (My god don’t you realize, you really aren’t that clever; I am fooling you.)
Like a little boy you splash about in compliments, never fearing that they
might stain your hipster physique. Quite frankly, your vintage look is boring me.
Of course, I am the real fool. I waste my Saturdays in bed with you,
half listening to your sweet ideas and mostly gazing into your
hazel eyes. Thinking about their desperation, your dizzying desire
to be free of stereotypes, to make all your dreams come true, to use the women as your momma that wasn’t there.
(You must have been fed by a bottle) Sweet boy, I will kiss your cheek once more
and laugh at two more jokes, and then I will have to roll away and go to sleep.
For this is pathetically boring, this young love thing. I’d much rather
sleep by myself.
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