You shoot my veins full of daydreams
until I can't wipe the happy off my face.
If love is a drug
then it's only purpose is to make me forget mine,
Can't you see? Forever may be calling me,
but telephone mortality is still ringing in my ears,
a tuning fork, a ticking second hand.
But I can't hear it cry, I'm still high
on moonlight, two glasses of champagne outside my bedroom window,
It was not the sea, glistening like fabric into infinity
on night rooftops, all flash and neon signs
headlights and forget-me-not streetlamps, painted ladies of the sun.
Your love shot through my veins, but I wasn't listening,
too much my own ghost, asking children where their eyes were.
Some great grandfather painted stars in black-velvet sky,
and even though they've all bled into city heat
I trace with my finger where they used to be, and
needle in hand, look down at the street and plunge.