| Stare at the silver of an empty flask.
|
| Ponder the use of a gift you can’t give back.
|
| Time spent on highways north of home,
|
| sliding up 65 in heavy snow.
|
| My mind is a kiss that’s soaked in beer,
|
| an honest exchange of heat in December air,
|
| but even in the cold I can almost feel your hands
|
| in my hair and mine on the steering wheel.
|
| So what are we now? |
| A hunger satisfied?
|
| A champagne toast towards an honest try?
|
| An eye turned spring or an oncoming sunrise?
|
| An absence of pain or a poison that’s mostly self-prescribed?
|
| Are we just the silenced howl? |
| Are we just the painted clouds?
|
| Are we slowly fading down behind the reddest doubt?
|
| Are we just the bastard hope as we’re lowered into the ground?
|
| While the day turns the page and last sunlight burns out.
|
| Stare at the silver of an empty flask.
|
| Ponder the use of a gift you can’t give back.
|
| Time spent on highways north of home,
|
| sliding up 65, one last goodbye. |