a soft melancholy is, at times, welcome; this is but its opposite.
they've moved on. i never do.
little sounds against silence
the cold, sleep-deprived
burned out yet burning on
like the candles, like a muse, like a cure
like a cure
/
and i, a smiling man
though my lips are loath to move
'till i tell it the truth
when i do, truth is altered
and i, a smiling man
/
pain, the surgeon's table
love, stitch me shut
needle and thread, let me feel them slither
while you rock me
like a seashell
/
dark, dark gleam the stars
i don't remember being slapped
before yesterday
it was my own hand alright
alight against the balcony rain
/
i hoped it would wake me up (a cure)
but the stars scorch my skin
a heartbeat and gone
'nother caress in passing
like light. like light.
/
Light! what sort of pilgrim are you?
the sharpest razor, the brightest eye
the swiftest racer, say you never lie?
when you pass out, the stars come out
to wake you up again
/
like lies. choose one or let me choose
the little sounds against your silence
your muse, your pain, your sleep deprivation
like a candle, my phoenix
like a cure.
/
put you up in flames and you're born again —
pain is good, monsieur. like a cure
that never cures.