Line by line
In the skin just above her ribs
The ink is seeping in
And as the magic-hour moon
Comes up above the tenements
The tragic name appears

“He would have done the same for me”

Delicious sadness
She likes to wash it down with wine
The kind that comes in boxes
White painted bicycle
White painted flower on the ground
A sacrament that sickens

“He would have done the same for me”

I know my hands are tied
I know the ink has dried
It’s to the bad text and the sad text
that we listen harder
It’s when the makeup runs
we lean in really close

What will keep her clean this evening?
What will make her fancy free?