If Only, If Only

Only late at night do you cross my mind. I retrieve my precise instrument for this precise moment. I have your song on repeat and all I feel is looming defeat, intermixed with a strange sense of scruples. What to do? Is it really me? Or the twisted b**** in the back of my brain? Time and time again, over the past two weeks since the last cheat all I think of is you. Sweet bubblegum Newport kisses. Dismissive submissiveness. Repertoire of words spewed and slang. I love you baby. You're mine. But wait no, not again. Not this time.
Maybe its finally the heart failure, or permanent brain damage ensuing, but emitted hints should lead you on. I forgot what I'm on. I'm stuck in the past, lest I should finally forget you, which I doubt is even plausible. Gotta vamoose, as that corny saying goes. Who knows? Maybe you really miss me too.
There isn't a god. A he or she or it or even a lucid after-thought. This is the bed and your sheets don't remember me. Is it her blood or is it the withdrawals showing? You never smoked cigarettes with my lipstick on the filters. I shrugged it off, crossed my legs, and said, "It's not a big deal."
I feel the subjects. Sweet, fiesty, cold. and creeping onto me. All I see is aging denim, dirty chucks, and platinum rings.

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