sweethearts and scallywags. you bastards. this is where the fine line lives. and i am in the middle-place. bathing foreign babies for working mothers. taking care. wasting time. and my throat is sore. i may be dying. i maybe dying. so why stop now. i make love to my thoughts. feel tremendous guilt when i get home from work, dog tired. and she is lying in my bed wearing silk sheets. eyeballing me, asking silently if i desire her enough. and i say, sorry baby. hitting the proverbial sack. sorry, baby. covering up, shutting my eyes and thinking about times when i won't have to pay my thoughts so much attention. when there's someone else to hold me so tightly that i stagnate, melting out of myself. become a puddle, allow air to gradually take me. that's the love they told me about. but what can i say. these are just the dreams that put me to sleep at night. and i know that forever it's just the two of us. i'm a terrible lover, and yeah, i've handed out some bruises. ruffed her up around the edges. but she still loves me. i say, sorry baby, it just goes to show you how great your life is, that you might have all this turmoil. making you stronger. she knows she's valiant. and says i'm right. we will always work things out.