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



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


so baby

why won't you do the same for