I don't do love so well anymore,
and the baggage you get when you're with me
won't stow in the overhead.

And it's probably just a matter of time
before whatever ghosts
I'm outrunning
catch up, and I gots to hit the road again.

About the best I can do
is a heads-up,
an advance warning
if you will,
to the effect
that while I am safe when used as intended
I have an expiration date
and you better not get all cocky
and think somehow
you're going to change me,
or this time it'll be different,
or whatever.

I ain't worth it
and you aren't all that,
and anyway that story-book love stuff
is maybe grist for teenage agony,
but you and me both
are a bit too wrinkled and seasoned
for that flavor of foolishness.

And in the end,
if we can get our minds around
these simple clues,
then maybe with what's left
there's room
for something good
and special.