Used To Being Loved

It matters that we laugh when no one else would dare to breath.

When no one else would blink or swallow,

it matters that we’d laugh, it mattered then and now that we

are probably tired or stretched or strung out,

I require reassurance somehow.

Passion seems extravagant now.

You point out my youth and tell me I’m fine.

But you're used to being loved.  You're used to being loved.

It matters that we laugh, it reminds me that we can laugh,

that pettiness can form in fallow,

that love might flit past if swatted at reflexively.

But all the while that I’ve been speaking,

you’ve been only barely listening,

and find my voice excessively loud.

You point out my youth and tell me I’m fine.

You're used to being loved.  You're used to being loved.