And I tend to forget,
Where I'm going or who I'm pretending to be.
This is no poem, so be prepared.
This is no poem, it just looks like one.
The cities of ivory have been turned upside down,
Teenage couples make out in their ran down street corners,
You smile as I dance on your windowsill.

Remember, once we were content
Just to feel under each other's clothes,
Barely touching the smooth skin of innocence.
Now excitement is lukewarm; desire is blunt.
Conversations revolve around sex
But it's more like debating the flaws of Hegelian philosophy.
We 're consumed by mechanical acts of obscene repetition
That leave us empty, yet still longing for more.

I say “tell me something you've never told anyone else”
You hesitate; then begin to carve your pin number
On the inside of my palm.
It's supposed to make me feel safer. But it hurts.
Even devotion has a price in our 21st century romance,
Our confessions are subject to the strict laws of copyright.
We have matured, at last. Our knives are sharper.

The face in the mirror was there, when I last checked.
A pathetic abstraction designed to remind me
Of my place in the world and the world in my places;
Constructed to limit my being in physical realms,
To help me police my facial expressions.
Does my terror abide with the rulings of fashion
And is this rendition of sorrow convincing enough?

Believe me, I wish I could take you away for a while,
To cleanse your emotions of cold calculation,
To brush out all traces of doubt from your memory,
Whilst struggling to fill your deposit of hope.
But wounds never heal on my planet of loneliness,
I'm trapped in autistic projections of lust,
My nightmares converge at the crossroads of nothingness
Where futures are burnt in the flames of the past.