Send my muse "hey lil mama lemme whisper in ya ear" and I’ll use a number generator for what my muse will say to yours.

He is lacking friends with a pulse. ( In truth, he is simply
lacking friends.  Even the dead  can’t stand him,  it often
feels.  But he  hasn’t exactly  made a  very good case for
himself over the years. ) 

                                                  It would be nice, he thinks,
                                                  if she could stay breathing
                                                  for just a little while.

                  Long enough for him  to say there’s somebody
                  that doesn’t hold him in great disdain who just
                  so happens to have a pulse.

Those thoughts prompt him to speak, and the words are
past his lips before he can even try to stop them.

           "Watch your back.“ 
            She’s capable.
            He’s sure.

                                                                 But he’s lonely of late–
                                                                 and lonely men worry.