Trite

She’s on the edge of my bed
with my last cigarette
And she’s looking harder
than the end should be
Those «accusationary eyes»
Another urge to cry out
But she can’t find the matches again
And when I think about the sweat
Undressed to all excess
I question where my mind should be
This is just not the same
I’ve memories of flames
Oh sweet memories
Of when I was with you
Oh with you
The highway seems sacred at night
splinters of light
Directing apparitions to me
I drive faster to escape sunlight
An advent of lies
on the streets to point at me
Why is it always the same
I’ve memories of flames
Sweet memories
Of when I was with you
Oh with you
In all my impressions of life
Post-modern sublime
I lose the prescribed remedy
We seem to quickly lose sight
Oh that may sound trite
But I will not choose disbelief
She’s on the edge of my bed
with my last cigarette
Oh sweet memories