How can I get over you? Get past you? When, in reality, you are at the end of every road.
The passenger in my car.
The reason for the drive. The fuel, the passion, the everything; the perfect imperfection-ism, made
You are woman.
Subtle and extreme.
You are woman. Soft, warm, here; far away.
You are woman, and we-- men-- we need you. More than you need us?
I don't think so.
But it doesn't matter. Our insanities are fed and left hungry by you.
We can never be satisfied.
Your brown thighs, honey-colored fingertips, cinnamon frosted lips, black feet.
We love you in your Cuban mood, Midwestern stance, African flair; Japanese, Sicilian, Greek, Brazilian, Parisian, Russian, Puerto Rican, South Side, West Side, my side of the bed...
We need you.
So I can't get over you, get past you. Straight up, I saw you just the other day.
You were following me on 71st Street. But still, you walked ahead of me too.
That is our story, love:
I will lead you like a man should. And follow you to the end of every road.