I'm made up of instincts,
none of which are too keen.
but I get by with these high cheek bones,
little faith in people,
or a higher being.

I'm a man with desires
and if I told you any different, I'd be a liar.
as hard as I've tried I've found
I can't deny myself those things that I want.

as last night turns into this morning...
buried in your blankets, left for dead,
my heart beating in my head.
I lie still, pretending I'm asleep...
and I watch you put your clothes on for me,
a local pharmacist and his wife,
and I'm convinced after your performance
that this world is too big for us,
and our stupid instincts,
and our stupid desires.