Your lips crave mine,
yet mine long for his.
My lips are pressed against yours,
while his are on hers.
He will never be mine
but I will always be his.
You are a substitute,
he is a fantasy.
My hands will never search for yours,
the way they wish to hold his.
You are the cheap liquor to pass the time,
and he is the 1969 wine.
I am not yours,
And he is not mine.