i can taste you in the waste of another day
gone by without a goodbye or a hello
and it all seems to slide, fast like honey in a grenade
i stayed, you know, in spite of your dryer sheets
because i didn't know how to hang on my own noose

strange how i keep tripping on my path of getting over you
since i keep finding your turkish gold cigarettes, half smoked
tucked into my couch cushions; quite similar, i find
to the way you've stayed tucked inside my heart
slightly absinthial; still, i get some kind of thrill
when you tell me that you miss me, even if you might be lying
can't regret each amoret i wrote to to the boy who won me over

i alternately blame and credit you for this jazzetry menagerie
sing my songs of missing you to the true sound of sax; and sex-
sex lends a subtle smoke, a haze to the ways i speak to you
and i've been warned to scorn the attentions you now offer
for they might be just you playing your panpipes to my nymphomania
but i have the body of an ashtray- and i love the way
you press your searing heat into my flesh; i like to burn

anyway who's to say desire is less to aspire for? maybe i don't need love
maybe a warm body in my bed is more than sufficient
to tint my line of vision, make it rose colored again
maybe you love me still; i cannot read you, and my tarot offers blanks
i am more than confused- i was used, abused, and maybe to you
it didn't seem that way; but now, now, i don't know how to turn away

your eyes are like the ether; deep, they drown me with one glance
entranced, i know, and curse myself for it
i would follow you through death and the void of dreamlessness
all for love of the way you bind me in your words
asphyxiating me; but i always liked the way you kissed me til i couldn't breathe