The colors tend to fade
Blues to black, reds to grey
I can see them with my eyes closed
Light refracted like it once was
In a room with more mirrors than books
Your prose needs editing but your poses are well rehearsed
Concessions that I make
I'm not looking to be deified - I ain't no saint
It's you I see with my eyes closed
Unfinished fiction that my mind wrote
In a room on the floor in the mirror
I watch myself move as if you were here
The cool side of the pillow on the wrong side of the ocean
Fearless flies in my mouth
Dead moths in the sheets
Lie so still like paralytic
Tonight I'll sleep in the gutter
Tomorrow I won't remember
By the time I'm home this nightmare will be only a dream