Your past times consisted of the strange, and twisted and deranged, and I love that little game you had called crying lightning. (Crying Lightning – Arctic Monkeys)
I inhale, deep,
and all that tragic colour drains from your
expectant eyes
the ones that hang
so heavy under this smoking purple sky
and you can’t admit that I’m no good,
that you are simply Yesterday’s Guy.
So you choke on the lies that I feed you
and can only sigh when I ignore you
and walk right on by, leaving you
sad, suffocating, alone
with your expectant eyes,
and your sweetest voice, the one that is smothered
by my eyes, and my lies, and this smoking purple sky.
