These days, the sun sleeps against
a wistful twisting of violet blue.
Pretention? Brake pad. You
told me that
my cadence is lyrical,
so, which is it, Mister?

I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.

I mean, maybe.
I mean, maybe.

-- though, the more often you say it,
I can't help but think that the odds
come up in your favor ever less.

I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.