A picture of Paris, that white wedding gown,
We lit one more candle and burned it all down,

Tangled in tightropes, deceived by our scars,
Serving our sentence behind faded bars,

A penchant for poison, a toast to good health,
And the voice that I hear when I talk to myself,

A dance with delusion, still playing our role,
Carving some shape out of that empty hole,

A lonely motel room, a twice-broken heart,
I was who you were back when you fell apart,

The sweet taste of surrender, a casket you built,
A road paved with ashes and blood-colored silt,

Of time and the river, a Manhattan sunset,
I write to remember what she drinks to forget,

Count on cold fingers, whittled down to the bone,
All the noise that I made to not feel so alone.