I keep asking myself why
I'm back here laying at your side,
with the smooth pulse of the bass
and the feel of your face.

You trace your fingers
along my spine,
I can't help but ask myself why.

The pale blue of your eyes
is less like the sky
and more like the ice on the lake.
Like the lips of a drowned girl,
or the delicate blue curl
of smoke that you let
through your mouth, from your cigarette.

You can't stop biting my neck.
I can't fix the emotional wreck
going on in your head,
so we'll lie in this bed
and pretend
it's not already dead.