here comes a thief and but i'm broke

the thing i like about being me

is, when i pull over

to give a ride to some drunk dude

stumbling his way home from the train

at 2 in the morning

skinny, stubbly

and he stinks and has blood on his shirt

not his own, 'cause he's not bleeding from anyplace

but he does have deep scars all over his face

from a knife or something used like a knife to make cuts

deep into his cheeks and forehead,

the thing i like about me is that my very first thought when he falls into the car saying "thanks i didn't you'd stop"

my very first thought is 'maybe i should get a black leather jacket like that

i bet it would look pretty funny on me'

"one two three four five six seven i'm

floating in a constant heaven"

that song ripples inside me for some dumb reason

it's a dull life spent too much inside cars

driving to places to make some cash

and when we should be reaching for the stars

we're just reaching for the buttons on the dash

sometimes space and time dissolve and everything becomes language to me

your face turns to a poem all electric in my brain

and if i stop thinking about maybe holding your hand and start thinking about kissing you

honey it's your own damn fault

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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