Maybe we're from the same scar.
Maybe the same galactic gutter.
Maybe the same pulpy punch.
Maybe you were my sister
or you were my brother.

Maybe there is a place
where we used to go
to plant our feet
in what we didn't know.

Maybe there is a place
where the whistle grows,
the voices chatter,
the stillness slows.

And maybe, somewhere
or the whistle grows,
the voices chatter,
the stillness shows.

And maybe, somewhere,
or this place, you said to me,
"I hope you remember
that this is a false memory."

I get high off of watching preconceived notions of self go up in flames
Off of knowing that my words were the spark
and the breaths between them the wind that fed the fire
Off of watching the phoenix rise from the ashy remnants of it’s former being
Off of my heartbeat echoed in the beating of its wings

Knowing that I wrote the song this new bird sings.

Hearing you
Say her
name was
like taking
down
a shot of
Whiskey

Until I
remembered
that you  
weren't really
ever my
Cup of tea

You're a breath of fresh air in a world of smokestack trees.