She rolls to me and into a cuddle
At rest I am at my thoughtless best
And she speaks of nothing else
Other than leaning in and saying "I love you"
I always run my hands on her back then
Acknowledge it, and respond "I love you too"
In the ages of reason, past
One must often run into such qualms
In quarrels, in quandary, and in queer
And often think or reflect on their day
Or do they lean in and say "I love you"?
I always found it to be a charade
Does the other acknowledge and respond too?
As I lie now I can't remember my personal last
When I had such refutable thoughts
I hear the words of her love confessions
And all I feel is apathy, as I let them pass
Should I have been more receptive I think
She leans in whispers her usual "I love you"
And in my laugh I whisper "I no longer do"
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