He's got 57 dollars and an old receipt inked to death with the number of a w**** that he met in Albuquerque last Tuesday night because
love always translates to s***.



His best friend is asleep in the back of the car, no blankets, just a dying jacket murdered by the winter cold
and they call this home.







There are no stars in the sky, no neon street signs and he's driving.





He hasn't slept in days
and he needs a gas station and
another pack of cigarettes






I guess









you could call him reckless,
a sour taste in another girl's mouth.
You could call him deadly,
with a trace of cancer shielding his lungs but
everytime he runs, I want to run too

because I'm scared of a love that he can't handle.















-
He's got 57 bucks, a notebook of s***** lyrics, an empty bottle of vodka and the heart of every girl he has ever met.







so
remind me again
why I can't decipher perfection
from this.