last American virgin

another sunday, in the cafehe leans over to mepushing forward in his chairhe whispers privatelythey dont know where we gowhen the lights turn low.you and me were the same,we know we all have to gohe writes his name in the soapon the counter top. i grip my chair with white knuckleswishing that he would stop.dont you dare try to compare,i am nothing like you.youre bringing me down.at a bus stop in the rain,he slithers over to me.pulling at his greasy hairi know he thinks ill agree.they dont see what we seewhen we close our eyesyou and me were the samei know we both fantasize.he pulls his jacket closer to him as he winks at the night.out of sight id rather walk,but something just isnt right.dont you dare try and compare,i am nothing like you.youre bringing me down.