it’s not nearly as romantic as you’d thought; watching the world burn
having it crumble under the weight of your gaze
but here we are, the lucky ones beneath the gallows,
and we’ve got front row seats to the end of
the earth itself.
this acrid, unbreathable smoke is in my
eyes and
ears and
lungs and slowly pumping through my
blood
can you taste this desperation when we kiss?
am i the only one who feels this
sitting on cinders like it’s the hood of my car
and wishing we could see through the haze?
i’ll miss the noise, the feel of
cities rushing
two-lane highways brushing along my
well-worn and weary tires
and you’ll miss none of it, none at all
because you’re dead
and you’re difficult and he’s wearing your face but
it doesn’t matter. none of it does.
kiss me again to drown out the screams. i want another
shot at life, but it won’t happen now:
another car, another motel,
another rushed fumble out of our borrowed ties and IDs and lives
but all i’ve got is you and your coffee’s getting cold.
you’re not him but i can pretend with my
eyes shut -
just don’t leave me with the wreckage.
you are my morningstar
and i’m haunting you with life.