bedroom eyes

He's playing with my fears.

He's got hands full of money,

paying taxes on his compliments,

and charging 100% of my interest.

He's wearing his bedroom eyes (and hers and hers),

but his bedroom lies

are still hidden under his tongue.

His tally marks are tall,

and they litter campus with pointed glares,

turning this town into a needle-stack with no hay.

He's looking at me like hey.

But I was taught to look for devils,

and they climb shoulders.

They climb shoulders and crack spines.

He's walking with a limp.

He's walking with a limp,

from the crack in his spine where the devil took some of his backbone,

but you wouldn't notice from his bedroom eyes.

His steady eyes.

His meet-me-after eyes.

You wouldn't notice the crack in his spine.

It's not as loud as his cherry lips,

where he:

b) plays with your name

c) screws with your name

d) screws with you

You can't tell morning or night through those bedroom eyes.

You can't tell Sunday or sin through those bedroom eyes.

You don't know heaven or hell through those bedroom eyes.

But if the devil cracks spines,

then the devil climbs.

Those bedroom eyes don't belong to him.

Your bedroom eyes don't belong to him.

But you.

You with your nervous eyes,

and forget-me-not attitude.

He lit you like yesterday's news, 

but your only job was to kindle.

He doesn't like fires but he lights fires.

You, you would know.

Don't cry, darling,

all he has is bedroom eyes.

Bedroom eyes that don't belong to him.

But you.

You always will.

You always will.