Why must passion be frustratingly entangled in melancholy
The words remembered are acidic; a teary brine
Nights of foraging your soul alone hang in the hallways
When the only drunk that's worth a **** is nostalgia
And the only ink in the universe is trapped by old letters
You drown any fire mercilessly, unflinchingly
Because at least the colds consistent
And at least you've learned to cope
Breakdowns are receding with miles of open road
Nights of infinite stars drape a world's worries