[ A car, the ocean, a coal-black sky ]

A car, the ocean, a coal-black sky patched with clouds
and a full moon silvering the edges;
the green signs with white letters gone dull in the dark
and us still somehow knowing all the words.
All the warnings, disregarded.
Apathy as an art form,
as a path to becoming invincibile.

We walked down the pier, on old wood wet
with salt and decay and only just enough strength
as imperfect parts of a whole.
We sat at the end with our feet in the water.
I was thinking about murder,
about duct tape and zip ties, about
throwing dead weight over the side.
Then you lit a cigarette
and the moment passed.

You looked in my eyes like you knew me
but when I stared back I just felt empty again.
It wasn't a revelation,
just awareness like a deafening silence
where something substantial used to be.
Something leaving too much space too quickly.
I couldn't remember who I was supposed to be.
I just wanted you to hear me
without having to say it, without having to struggle
to put meaning to the words.

I fell asleep on the couch,
after the movie and the drive back home.
All I could feel was the alcohol in my blood
and all of that potential hidden somewhere in my chest.
When I woke up you were sitting on the floor
with another cup of coffee and a look like you'd forgotten
which part of me you liked.

I should have left then but I didn't want to face it.
I didn't want to believe that words in the dark
could stop being true in the light,
could turn into lies with the dawn.
But still - I just wanted it to mean something.
I just wanted you to come back home.
I thought I'd be the first to leave
but your voice in this place, it fits me like chains.
I couldn't get away.
And I know eventually I'll see you less and less
but I wake up every day
and try to keep the past from happening.
It's not as futile as it sounds.
In those first few seconds the past is empty
and just as unpredictable as the future seems to be.

I told you I had a dream the world had ended
and when I woke up the streets were on fire.
You said: It's always about death for you.
I told you I had a dream the world had ended
but I figured out how to be someone else.
You said: That's just another way of taking someone's life.
It's just another form of violence.

I've been looking for a way to forget all the bad parts
but I get stuck remembering how it really was.
How I'm not sure if I ever really felt forgiveness,
but the days are getting shorter
and I find myself wanting to know.

A car, the road, a slate-gray sky
and the rain on my face like misery;
the green signs with white letters gone blurry in the storm
and me still somehow knowing all the words.
All the promises, disregarded.

I walked down the street on scarred blacktop
reflecting loose gravel and broken glass
through the worn-out soles of my shoes.
I didn't have the strength to find my own way home
so I sat on the curb with my head in my hands
and I couldn't stop thinking of dying;
of handguns and knotted rope,
too much alcohol and too many pills,
of what sort of note to leave behind.
Then I light another cigarette
and I wait for the moment to pass.