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.