Tonight you called me
and we chatted away
like two old friends,
skipping around the important parts;
that dance that's ours alone.
This dance of ours;
forward and then back,
forward and then back.
I am becoming quite tired and footsore.
okay, well, maybe not quite that dramatic,
but you get the point.
Oh, actually, you probably don't,
come to think of it.
You specialize in ambiguity,
lies, hurt and cowardice.
Tell me: Where were you
the night I almost died?
You didn't even call.
I've wondered, since then,
if you're a sadist or just a narciccist.
You definatly have a God complex.
I've always been unwilling
to think that of you,
but now I Know -
you were alway just a boy
who enjoys the dance.
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