You say "it's something in your eyes,
I miss that, your smile"
and from miles away you have me
breathless. So I'll be
Godard's American girl in Paris and you
my thug, and I promise these lips won't
lie, but betray; not when you tell me I'm
beautiful, I'm gorgeous, I'm perfect,
despite that you won't have me.
So it's a lost cause as my hope encounters
hits but the irrelevance of such lofty
thoughts is laughable at best and you're
taking up residence in my chest,
heart chambers, once again, like a
renewed lease after studying a broad,
And the feeling it gives me is enough
for me to look past it all as I fall.