It was a headache that woke me up,
a motor running in the garage,
The knife left in the median
where west met east and I walked between.
The lights left off in my room,
and the empty bottle clanking home,
and nobody knows
the rush of touching her hand and the sweat.
Slow and deliberate,
it was the rhythm of a choice.
The lights and the noise,
cold cheeks by dawn.
Press play and wait for day,
the same repeating song.
And it won't sound the same.
I'm already gone.
I'd leave the pages open were there anything to read.
I'd walk the line for longer but don't know where it leads.
The engine laid its blanket over me,
but it was your voice that put me to sleep.
