i pick a spot on your bedroom wall and focus while you're talking comparisons of me and him, your plans, my head spins of hearing of your sins, your beautiful self destruction. we get off and i get turned off again. so i take off trade your bed for the t stop. you think that new york can save you, under pink sheets, it can not: buried in tales of love lost longing not to fail losing itself in what was there, finding everything is found in lost details. but how can we not try? don't you say my name like you now or ever had the right. you're just a clever line i write for you are the poetic device that i will sing to someone else tonight.

but before i left i scribbled a note addressed to you, steadied my shaking hands with confidence for once instead of booze, placed in your shoe knowing outcomes, there were two either you'd read and see beauty or swear off shoes and literacy. they'll say it's love that keeps tearing us apart, that ties the knot set for the noose, not for the neck but for such young and naive hearts. such willing subjects, we subjects ourselves to the will and fear of empty beds. i myself play best the fool but i'm tired of breaking my one rule. i'll run. and i know you will too.

so i keep this spot on the wall just to remind me i'm just a word in your fabled masterpiece you can't explain, let alone read. for the wanting, willing arms of a desperate city you're burning towns and bridges to the ground. and me? well, i'm burning too, for reasons as just as your eyes are blue. but you will always own just what you leave and lose. and now this too, sadly, belongs to you.