What a perfect excuse, loneliness.
Sex & violence, the essence of this,
the confession that I do not confess.
I turn the lights on before I undress.
The mirror is something I cannot miss.
What a perfect excuse, this loneliness,
the most cherished thing that I possess.
It’s a curdled rapture, a spoiled bliss,
a confession that I will not confess.
It’s never the cause of my distress.
It seals my eyes with a lingering kiss.
What a perfect excuse is loneliness,
that risible, invisible caress.
So terrible, so apt. It’s what I’ll miss
when I confess what I cannot confess:
that you alone will make my heart fluoresce.
My love is the death you cannot dismiss.
What a perfect excuse, loneliness!
This is not a confession; I confess.
