it should be so simple,
some dark room, a stranger's hands,
a story written in wine.
it should be so easy,
finding you late one night,
sometime underneath a harvest moon.
there is nothing solid about it,
this malleable future
of love shaped by alcohol:
except maybe one night,
you learn to find me where i roam,
to seek me where i stray,
and then it becomes complicated again.
it should be so simple,
replacing one man with another.
you are each need and heat anyways,
and all i can do is provide.