He doesn't believe they'd fight over him selling out, toeing the party line, but they do.
She doesn't believe they'd fight over her not being open with her feelings with him, but they do.
I only know what you want me to know, he says.
You do everything I don’t want you to do, she says.
She weeps storms of tears, storms out of his apartment -
- runs back, kisses him frantically, she can't stay away.
(Oh your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine.)
He shouts - he's never been the shouting kind, before - she makes him angrier than he's ever been -
- no one's ever told him, these are what your dreams are, these are what your dreams should be.
She wishes he'd hold her, and stop her before she leaves. (She always comes back.)
He figures the less he gives her, the more he gets back. (He always gives in to her, anyway.)
They shout at each other; she flings something, which shatters like glass on the floor.
And then he's crying, and she flings herself into his arms, and his hands clutch at her hips, hard enough to bruise -
- and they make love gently, trying to heal the wounds they'd clawed into each other's skin, to cross the spaces that they'd managed to put in between: trying to live with each other, because, oh, they can't live without.
(Oh I don’t love you but I always will Oh I don’t love you but I always will)
She holds him, after, and his tears are damp against her skin. I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.
Poison and Wine [R]
She doesn't believe they'd fight over her not being open with her feelings with him, but they do.
I only know what you want me to know, he says.
You do everything I don’t want you to do, she says.
She weeps storms of tears, storms out of his apartment -
- runs back, kisses him frantically, she can't stay away.
(Oh your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine.)
He shouts - he's never been the shouting kind, before - she makes him angrier than he's ever been -
- no one's ever told him, these are what your dreams are, these are what your dreams should be.
She wishes he'd hold her, and stop her before she leaves. (She always comes back.)
He figures the less he gives her, the more he gets back. (He always gives in to her, anyway.)
They shout at each other; she flings something, which shatters like glass on the floor.
And then he's crying, and she flings herself into his arms, and his hands clutch at her hips, hard enough to bruise -
- and they make love gently, trying to heal the wounds they'd clawed into each other's skin, to cross the spaces that they'd managed to put in between: trying to live with each other, because, oh, they can't live without.
(Oh I don’t love you but I always will
Oh I don’t love you but I always will)
She holds him, after, and his tears are damp against her skin. I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.