same shit, different day
that's what "affair" seems to say
that's business as normal, rising infidelity

and typical complaints
and typical restraints
on ones own life have given rise to this rhyme of the "free"

sweaty sin
like giving in
two hearts, but no thoughts

just the furtive lust
produced by love-rust
and moisture, your brow, dots

as the beat of the hips
(like drumming fingertips)
but oh so slow (and savored all the more . . . )

for its illicit nature
has been known to waste your
time is an overrated, unforgotten door

man, how long have they two
been giving up on truth
and love and hope of what may lie

above the world, grey skies hide shining stars
viewed by bright eyes while the wrists just crawl with scars
and the rhythm gets slower as the time goes by

until the end becomes a jumble and the meaning has gone dry.