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.