You split, slicker than a sawmill
I saw you everywhere
One hand on a cigarette
And both knees to take you there
You’re gone, but loving you is real
So’s the moon, and skinny like roadkill
In the shadow of the silver spade
I want to die out on your shoulder-blades
You came, quiet in the morning
I let you in my room
Something in the moth is made up of fire
And something in me is made up of you
