Sunday Morning

“We're not what you think we are. We are
Not lovers, merely friends.” “Then why
Are we in bed?” “A friend in need's...”
“A friend indeed, especially when one is
Drunk.” “Or both, and shelter close at
Hand.” “Will we be lovers later on?” “It's
Hard to know. I'll say perhaps. I do like
Laying here with you.” “The friend who
Thought he was your lover, chosen once
To fill a need?” “Indeed.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 24 times
Written on 2012-01-27 at 23:17

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