What do you do on a quiet, lonely night?
You’re on your couch, you've smoked your second cigarette.
The fan is whirring, the lights are on.
The furniture is perfectly disorderly.
Everything is just as you like it.
Your book is compelling, and you’ve finished it.
The coke is perfectly flat, and you’ve drunk it.
Your bra is off, the cotton of your favourite shirt rubs against your breast.
It’s done, it’s complete - the moment you’d been waiting for.
Then why does your ear want to hear the coin drop on a new message?
Why do you want a friend to call to tell you how you’re being missed?
Why do you wish someone was pottering around in the next room?
Is the silence of the night so unnerving?
Why do I wish I was spooning with you,
On my couch, on my bed, on the carpet, on my floor?
We come here by ourselves, we go back alone.
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