When dusty orange streetlights
Paint these drifts upon the ground,
Or when oil pastel purple skies
Spark clouds to a new life,

(This is all it comes to.)

All to blades of grass suppressed by flannel
(We know it always made you itch,)

To cups of coffee and burning brown leaves,
To dances beneath the sullied stars,
Atrophied with our hearts, our minds.

(At least we're not alone.)

Can these tears be worth the moonlight,
Can this emptiness be worth sweet cigarette burns?
Can skies part and beam you up,
Suck you dry before
Filling you anew?

Can these coffee kisses salvage souls?

(I'm willing to find out.)