She Doesn't Bother With Goodbyes

The light from the diner's hitting your face in the nicest beating I've ever seen,

as it runs its fingers up and down your cheeks, and throws your shadow against the wall a bit to roughly like a gentleman who's had to much gin for the evening.

So, baby have you got a cigarette?

No, I don't smoke; I'd just like to hold it; twirl between my fingers what murders the masses; feel like

I'm playing God for a moment. There's something sentimental about a classic love scene, but there's nothing classic about the way she's pretty.

There's red tape on everything. She's a crime scene that breaths. She's a crime scene.

The light above us is careless, throwing splashes of color in the strangest of places, and she said,

"You look so beautiful with your face all shaded." Is this your favorite sun-dress?

I'll try not to tear it, but a promise made isn't always a promise kept. There's nothing elegant about this.

She won't stop kissing, but my lips have gone dead and rigid. Find me a calender and I'll strike this from the record.

I barely said a word and she barely answer. My heart is miles from my body.

"I'm sorry, miss. I didn't catch your name."

I cannot "Perhaps it's best that you don't."

force myself "Maybe I'll see you around someday."

to smile. "Well, maybe you won't."