the fever of the evening comes upon us
and again we find ourselves into the cups
half drunk, half in love, but never full enough
and the words we discuss

cut

revealing fresh blood, warm to the touch
the taste of salt and iron on the tongue
speaking what we whisper in our waking lives
with a certainty that would make sober hands

tremble

as I listen I can feel your potential
in subtle pauses and hope soaked syllables
I do not want this night to weigh upon us
I do not want your words to mean nothing

tomorrow

the morning sun will rise, whitewashing drunk lies
do not allow these dreams of other lives to die
for every second you wait is but another grain
escaping your grasp into the abyss of time

live

A thousand what ifs, a thousand one years.
A thousand beliefs, a thousand one fears.
A thousand what ifs, to thousands of ears.
A thousand mischiefs, to the heart waiting here.

People know darkest is before sunrise.
But with these what ifs, it's darker than dark.
A thousand what ifs and a thousand one sighs.
What if my hoped flame was merely a spark.

A thousand what ifs, should I try to listen
And think and ponder and even consider,
A thousand more chances in my eyes glisten
A withering hope or a shot of wonder.

And thousands of ways, I could hope to die,
Or live, or feel, or end or begin.
And thousands of times, maybe I'd lie
To think that it's real or too good a sin.

A thousand and more, should the truth be told,
I've thought of and given too much my thoughts.
A thousand less more, it was never gold,
Maybe I never knew what I wanted sought.

People say darkest is before sunrise,
For you I decided to live in the dark.
Maybe I like how I lived a lie,
Or truth, whatever, you've made your mark.