the suicide waltz

it's 2:05 in the morning, yesterday is dead in my line of sight
though here i am, sitting at the hood of my beat-up jeep and
remembering how you used to pluck an angelflower from the
languid summer sky, tucked it behind my ear and said i was
your own piece of heaven

but like the brand new cuts on my wrist, the velvet horizon
eventually cracked open and i could almost hear the blue crush
moon sing a faint hosanna, it's tone resembling that of a gypsy
muttering ave maria as a curse amidst the snow, smoke and stars

i warned you to run baby, run away from me
but dirty-dancing with death was your idea
and somehow, your bones ended up buried
six feet under that summer

dusk tiptoed across your grave,
wearing nothing but a pair of
stilettos and a fishnet smile