My room smells like smoke and my bed sheets all reek of you.
It's hard to sleep with your scent filling my head,
like some kind of euphoric high that I never asked for.

Maybe I should have been more vocal.

But I like the nights that I spend with you, though few and far between;
Like a breath of fresh air, but there's smoke veils everywhere.

And maybe, maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm projecting something out of nothing and I'm wrong about everything. Maybe, maybe.

Oh, it's probably nothing.
It's a fluke, you're a phony.
I'm just a fool who falls too easily over cheap whiskey and the stale smoke from menthol cigarettes.

Isn't that how it always goes?