It makes little sense this passion for you; this hunger that marks my days and my nights, this craving that racks flesh yielding and soft, this torrent of carnality, sultry sensuality, this yearning that shakes me through to the core.
It makes little sense.
And yet, it makes little sense without you; this desiring body at home with your touch, this woman of longing at peace in your kiss, this being familiar, this figure estranged reflected in the glass back at me. It makes little sense. She makes little sense.
I make little sense without you near.