she's too soft and fragile to call it "fucking" 

she has to say "making love," like she's some 1940s telephone operator

who's sneaking out to see her beau after curfew

and smoke half a stale cigarette between giggles

and love isn't what we make at night, anyway

more like "I'll rub you off but only if you get me first" 

and that's not love

that's fucking symbiosis

that's a cost-benefit analysis practice problem

that's loneliness that's more painful than being with her

so I guess I'll go be with her instead of with myself 

and besides: what difference does it make

if the ceiling I'm staring at

is mine or hers?