Your Bed

Our fourth week in bed you said to me
With undertones of dread that he
Was riding the rails and would be
Visiting the city that week
You recommended that I leave
And I reluctantly agreed
Then when he blew his funds on weed
You dialed and whispered to me
"Come home, boy, I'm lonely and you are my only joy
Come home, boy, I'm all alone, boy."

Most days I don't answer my phone
Most days I crave to be alone