you drink to lose weight
i want to start smoking
southern comfort; a lucky strike
it's poetry--bruises on my thigh
where you almost hit gold
youre getting closer, i know it

teeth go crooked, grow apart
you almost tell me something sweet
next dance, between ****** feet, broken ankle
dont worry: it burns to the ground
the world wont listen but youve nothing to say
im getting closer, i know it

in a fit you take me to your first home
turn for me pages of teary-eyed diaries
tender, light-fingered: obviously lying
a sad necessity--but theres things left to know
places left to go, and well i wonder
arent we getting closer?