W. Doug Bolden

In that half-sunlight, half grey sort of living room With that bitter smell of tobacco smoke And gloom I can't help but feel comfortable lying Next to you And my words are bits Of general flickers Of whispered pleasantries. "Are you lying?" your casual remark In a way I can hear that question mark. "Oh baby, I am trying to sleep right here..." My reply And that is not what you wanted me to say. Your face, a grimace. Oh dear, its one of those days. "It's like this," I begin, another diatribe About how right and wrong Is a little boy's toy And how stupid things can get When left on their own And I just really wanted to Ask around To see what was up... And what might go down. "Are you lying?" You loudly repeat And I am a bitch Just lying here With that smile on my face Like a Cheshire cat With a grin stuck In my teeth And man its nearly eleven AM And I can see That its going to be This sort of afternoon All morning long Despite no matter what I say. So nevermind what I may... "I'm out of here," I quip, Rhetorically. "I got things to do," But I don't. And out the door into that half-daylight And overhead its overcast, And I feel the burn of forgetting my Cigarettes and I feel the taste Of chewing my words... I guess that'll do. You pull the blinds and shut your eyes, The street lights outside are way too quiet To not annoy, And you watch me Walk away Not saying A single damn thing And you know It will be Sometime tonight Before I can Feel quite comfortable enough, again, To lie with you.