He’d say:
I know we’re just friends but I need you right now
as his fingers traced patterns across my bemused brow.
He’d say:
I know we’ll have sex and I know we’ll be good
as he lay by my side like I knew that he would.
He’d say:
Let me take you away for your soon to be birthday,
We’ll go to Dalat, – would that be okay?
He’d say:
You mean the world to me; I’m going to miss you when you go,
You don’t need to worry; there’s no need to feel low.
He’d say:
Come stay with me at my place in Limoges,
I want to see you once more; let’s just see how this goes.

But you see, there’s a problem with all this and the problem was this:

He’d say:
She’s just a friend, I help her out just a bit
as he’d dive out the door for five minutes or more.
He’d say:
Those souvenirs you saw in her flat all last night?
Just presents for her kid, you don’t need worry about that.
He’d say:
I don’t find her attractive, interesting, desirable at all
I’m with you right now, what’s your problem with that?
He’d say:
So you think I would cheat?
I can’t believe you’d think that.

Yet here we all are in our own private misery –
6000 miles lying between us.
It’s no longer his voice that I hear; just the tap of his keys
as he writes and he says:
‘I can’t face you again; I’m cutting contact from now.’
So I guess now it’s out
I’m not needed by him
because he’s got work now to do:
to say things in her ear like he’d say to me,
so he can coax her back in cos he’s feeling lonely.

You see, he said all of that
but as I lie here alone,
I find myself saying words I don’t think I could mean:
‘say something to me – I’m loathing this dream’.