So the dust trail ends
where the smoke trail begins.
& there's a notification on the airwaves
of an unknown car
parked on the side of a city street -
and this is how you're forced to remember me.

Why,
why must you doubt?
You like to say you hate the way I pout
yet never hesitate
to draw a frown across my face
with nothing positive to say.
And so we'll try so hard to sleep through the time apart..
I just strive for the easy way out.


The vodka was bruning
my bottom-busted lip when
I'd realized that if I were bleeding,
I'd bleed only while deep in a dream of you.
And the worn soles of old shoes - you say
you find all sorts of things when moving out;
everyone knows you'd wished you'd forgotten about.

The night lingers on, still
& my face feels sort of numb - while fingers gently rest.
I'll knead the x-amount of square inches of goosebumped flesh.
Just to get the easy way out.