in a voice with (firefly) wings

he tells me that

he - l o v e s - me

but he doesn't

(he doesn't)

-

or the tequila on his sweet-talk tongue

would be nothing but a dream

(i used to pretend it was only tinkerbell hanging by a thread of night-time lies)

but i looked into his autumn-boy eyes

and i knew it wasn't

true

-

the smoke wouldn't be sleeping with

the cotton

in the sweatshirt i bought you last christmas

the taste would be

on someone else's lips

-

there wouldn't be nicotine-stained fingers (in me)

there wouldn't be ripped-wing promises

beneath our backs

(and you can bet they're bare)

-

(there were firefly lies

in your eyes when we set them

free

so baby

why won't you do the same for

me?)