Syndrome

Over the nights, I've been dying

Beneath these vice-ridden bed sheets

Afraid to face the light of reality

Forcing myself upon these

Girls-- these children-- of the street corners whose

Kisses soak up the whiskey and spit out the lies

My body wants to hear;

A tragedy reimagined as a fling

You, a woman across the bar

Me, too quick to forget former love

We, eager to fall out our clothes and into each other

Half a night, half a romance written

Yet we don't fall in love in the end;

My reflection lies to me every time I see it in you

What I see isn't a man but a figure

A stalker in your eyes

Who am I really to you but

A stranger in the bed or One part of a love unrequited.