What's that thing
That wakes you at night,
Light up a cig
And think of the times.

It's not the sins.
It's not the lies.
Those are just
What we sleep with at night.

A feeling of annoyance,
A feeling of fear,
Of not knowing what's beyond
And what's here.

We fall from grace
And mix with the rain,
Then look into their's
To make our heart feel okay.
We all know the secrets of those eyes,
And yet no one blows the whistle
To end this tide.

For the rains have ceased to exist,
It's just us falling from grace.

She stood under the rain
Strands of wet hair
Covering most of her face.
Except those eyes,
Ahhh the eyes
That make everything else
Go blind.

Especially the fact
That I had an umbrella by my side.

On a Wednesday morning, clear and calm,
                     I went to Astor Place
and had a gypsy read my palm
                     or maybe just my face.

She said my heart was heavy
                     and my head was stuffed with lies.
But things like that weren't on my hand,
                     they hid behind my eyes.

The room is dull and dank and cold but at
least I have a hand to hold.

The taste of fear lingers
In my mouth,
Turning the breadth warm
Against the wintry crowd.

A glass of whiskey
Studded with ice,
Covered with droplets
With the passage of time.

Pleading to let things go
Saying,
"It doesn't matter no more".