The combustion
Of eye contact
Nearly kills me every time
Half dead
Half asleep
I'll tell you which of those promises
I can't keep
Ridges of his thumbs
Match up with the grooves
Carved in my back
Give me some slack
Let me climb down
Or up
I can't tell which is which anymore
Don't keep score
Pour out the bottle of whiskey
To keep this wound clean
Don't you see now? I never say what I mean.