and it's not money
set on repeat
echo
nonchalant in t-shirts years old
jeans don't fit and
collect the spills and torn barely
bond to frame
tonight its fucking freezing and
quiet and you drink yourselfself calmly into the
dullest most sympathetic stupor and you
hold the moon outside between distant
hands and she smiles whenever i
close my eyes we always
had that
it's the admitting part that's the killer
it's watching long fluffy curls of delicate
advice fan out in strands around
it's the rustle that remains in the bed you
don't sleep in anymore or
that's missing from the one in which
you do
it's listening to music without words so
nothing muddles these toxins
so when you find yourself singing or
spitting out blood in the sink or
scratching the back of your neck to
find an old wound you don't
lose it when her voice bellows
instead
you listen to drums and humming
equipment
you are able to stay (did i
already smoke
that cig
yet? no)
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