We’re still waiting
for all your promises.
Tender love and youthful buzz,
warm shivers,
sentimental words.
It’s not that I can’t live
without these things.
I just hate being lied to.
So much so that I sometimes
pick up suspicious rocks
to see if you’re hiding underneath.
I wonder if it’s you they write about
when I hear the dying crinkle
of a newspaper or magazine.
