I glanced at you -
an expression of calmness.
You hold your alcohol well.
You hold yourself better.
Art holds me together,
but it's all a waste.
Paint left to crack,
sxx, expended energy,
words that will fade,
alcohol pxssxd away.
It's all a fxckxng waste.
A taste of escape short-lived.
Some hands were made for rings,
others to wave goodbye.
Love is art of a devilish kind.
Survival of the fittest became
a game of Russian roulette
in the players hands.
And we play forgetting that the bureaucrats
are masters of counting cards.
The barrels will fire either way.
Sobriety will not save you
and wine will deceive you.
It's best to leave them for the masters
and play your hand anyway.

The feeling of riding shotgun in your car isn't a memorable feeling.
Less than
Stopping at all the shops we used to visit again, once hand in hand now three feet apart.
Watching the moon set over the mountains at seven in the morning, with a broken bone, a broken heart, and a cigarette lit between my numb fingers.
If past lovers are lessons, I learned yours the hardest.
Your brown eyed girl now has a fire in her eyes.
I will use it to keep him warm.

"He says it's weird seeing you with anyone other than Paul."
How I cant agree more.