Love is like toast

🎶 CHORUS – INTRO: It’s like making toast with no butter, He calls it love, I call it clutter. He bites his lip like it means more, But I’m just counting ceiling spores. He groans, I yawn, the sheets complain, We do this dance then sleep again. He whispers things that sound like vows— I nod and plan my grocery rounds. 🎶 VERSE 1: He lights a candle, dims the light, His boxer briefs are way too tight. He says “tonight, I’ll take my time”— But I’ve already left in mind. I think of taxes, milk gone sour, My pelvic floor, the shower power. He calls me “babe” like it’s brand new, I fake a moan and stare at shoes. 🎶 PRE-CHORUS: And yes, he means well — bless his soul, But I’m a houseplant in a role. I miss the days of lust and mess, Now it’s clean sheets and quiet stress. 🎶 CHORUS 2: It’s like making toast in an unplugged slot, He’s into it — I’m really not. He thinks he’s Zeus, I barely blink, He’s spilling love, I spill my drink. He’s writing poems on my thigh, I’m googling “How long till you die?” It’s technically still intimacy— Just starring him, and absentee me. 🎶 VERSE 2: He tries a move he saw online, I saw it too — it looked just fine. But here in bed it feels like jazz, With none of the rhythm, all of the spaz. He moans like wolves beneath the moon, I nod like, “Yes,” but maybe soon I’ll build a fort of mental bricks And decorate with candlesticks. 🎶 PRE-CHORUS: It’s not his fault — he’s sweet and warm, I’m just stuck in a subtler storm. I used to burn with every touch, Now I just flinch and over-lunch. 🎶 CHORUS 3 – BIGGER, DARKER: It’s like making toast with a hairdryer’s breeze, He thinks I’m gasping — I just sneeze. He calls it passion, I call it “meh,” He asks if I came — I say “Yes… ish.” He draws me close like I’m his muse, I hum along to morning news. He calls it sacred, deep, and raw— I call it “Thursday. 10:04.” 🎶 BRIDGE – SPOKEN/SUNG: I used to dream of sex and skin, Now I just dream of sleep and gin. He says I’m quiet, distant, cold... I say I’m seasoned. I say I’m bold. But mostly I’m just out of sync, Like dry white toast without a drink. 🎶 FINAL CHORUS : It’s like making toast, and watching crumbs, And wondering when the fire comes. He holds me tight and shuts his eyes, I scroll through memes and alibis. It’s love, I guess… or something near, It’s empty, numb, but still sincere. He says forever. I say “sure.” And clean the sheets like it was pure. 🎶 OUTRO: It’s not the worst, it’s just not quite… Like toast that’s warm but tastes like night.