you cannot buy love, but you can borrow it

she sees in his eyes a lucid lust for them young and pretty
she hates them for being nothing but everything she'll never be
and herself for wishing retrospectively that was her years ago
she realises uncomfortably that's the feeling she's trying to know
her thoughts echo of wonders fading to herself why she allows
time for the lies and his frivolous fancies to get her so tied down
he no longer looks at her as closely with nearly as much intent
he's so pent up with hope and her once vast tolerance is spent
for all this though in the end she relents to letting him take her home
absolution through action he's a Eucharist cup filled with desire to own
she's an old flame claiming the same safety of his staying over
as he slips between the sheets she contemplates the other kind of being alone
it's either company or companionship so over nothing she takes the superficial
she hides from the truth of the issue behind his imaginative kisses
puts her melancholy of the next morning down to his dismissing
of any completing feeling that she might neatly instill when they're entwined
as he sighs and says sorry you're not the one she can read the glaze of his eyes
held steady to convey the future it's the only truth she wishes were a lie
she cries puddles into the pillows and asks him to hold her so he knows
that though she's not his and he not hers she just needs a soul to borrow