Your timing is precious, I can't deny it
you stand so far above
secretly feigning grief
swallowing your indignation
like a Cup of Mystery
or a sigh that mocks at something like relief.
A little haughty,
fighting back your nausea
openly womdering if your priceless Persian rug
will stand up to my blood.
Your timing is exquisite
you never would have said it
sure the words, the words would have mustered,
would have spun and come undone
would have spouted as you pouted
as your sheepdog conscience rounded up your feelings
but as I said
your timing is something
for which noone burns a candle.
It's what I always admired about you the most
let us say, the best of your worst points
or the worst of your best.
Peope prattle on for hours,
write love letters, send off flowers
but since I'm the martyr and you're the Saint
since you're the cynic whilst I believe
why is it that you always spoke too late
and I never spoke at all?
