When you were exiled, you were
Then a child, holding your breath
For a while, molding your death
And I was watching you, sir.
The sirens sang blue and red
As your bruises stung my mood.
So dead, victims of a feud;
We waltzed from Hell into bed.
My wave crashed against your rock
As you splashed and drowned in rage—
A victim trashed and found on stage;
Wanting your heart, not your cock.
Two years is not very long;
You hear my “I still love you”
And you wear my sweater, too—
Why is wanting you so wrong?