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.