S. Hurley
I've got something about me that likes to make woman cry
He turns around in his slouch and exhales a smoky sigh
They'd been talking over wine, yes
He was toying with her kindness
Her face contorted, tailored for tears
Her face contorted, spilled salty fears
I can be subtile in torture and honesty take the blame
He takes a look in the mirror and hangs his eyes in shame
He'd been playing with her softness
He was planting guilt with a kiss
With her he loved no one but her
With her he hurt no one but her
Himself he only loved himself
Himself he hurt no one but self
I can be lonely in evenings spent reading magazines
He takes the phone from the craddle and sets it back in grief
From the corner of her mough came the twitch
Only when she sobbed had he itched