On the porch of that motel
you smoke your cigarette
With trails of blue smoke
falling from your lips
And you reach for that glass,
filled to the brim with whiskey,
on hoping that by some chance
you forget her.
You remember everything about her: her hair, her smell, and her voice
It almost drives you quite mad to remember it all.
You don't remember when it started to go bad,
only that it got bad,
and that she was never the same.