love is working double shifts on sub-par pay
when the silence rains down, and little kids stop giggling
i can't rediscover the eroticism in the voice of a virtual sibling
heavy hands catch a melting face from frowning

if love is so damn driven to save me, why am i drowning
why am i asking questions of someone that's too tired to care
why am i laying down into the young fire, like firewood that used to be a chair
why do i let you play with my hair, when the vodka has left without tipping

what is a man's hope left to do when it is done dripping
well it just spreads into a puddle of oily cynicism and spite
leaving a russian speaking pinocchio, except much less polite
to manufacture dreams that shake the foundations of reason

is it treason
or is it fate
love, the underpaid
illegal worker
does (like me)
nothing to stop her
as she slides into the grave
so cheap and valuable is love's labor
it seems it's nothing less than a slave