you call yourself an acosmist
walking around believing nothing exists
filling window sills with forgotten promises
and burnt out joints
spending every minute high and out of your mind
it's a comforting delusion if nothing disappoints

well, I think you've forgotten the hair I cut last summer
the weeks it took to get you out of a slumber
the nights I spent a room away
brooding over ways to have you stay another day
spending early mornings smoking cancer sticks
sorting the magic in my bag of tricks

see, I have yet to forget the pain I felt against your hip
the countless songs sung together in harmony
the way I fit above your voice, like a symphony
how come it's bitter if I'm better and it's lonely when I'm not
a disease that will surely make me forget her
it isn't something I could be taught