Sunday Munich In The Same Way
His fingertips reach my frigid body
As again he's much too late
To find what he's reaching for
Strokes me as he would a prize
A desolate void behind his eyes
The game between wanting less and asking for more
Strikes a pinnacle here
In my bed
I believe
I hate this conversation
Where you pretend to listen
And sometimes understanding me
But most times missing the point
