Its easier to fall for a voice and a picture
than a women sitting at the end of a bar
stirring lonely ice  
in a glass full of whiskey and dead dreams
The imagined love hurts less to lose
where kisses shared were just painted illusions
and wet colors left under the skin of a dream
Where the reality of the illusion bends
and sways to the whims of a foolish heart broken
and stitched and broken and stitched over time and clichés
And love is kinder in fantasy
than in shared beds with lonely souls
just putting their bodies through the motion
of the memory of past ghosts
of living passions from nights under a moon long gone
And the bar has filled and ice has melted
and women stir dead dreams
and wear whisky flavored lips
and maybe if I didn't suffer from a debilitating shyness
I would mention the strange weather
or say anything at all
But the solitary ride home is more tempting
and I have a picture and a voice
waiting on a nightstand next to an empty bed
with a comfortable dream
to stitch back the pieces of the dead heart
that somehow still beats inside my chest