last week i tapped the ash from my cigarette and doused myself in gasoline, i said
"the bottle’s empty," he said
"i’ll go get you some more" and the smoke
made my eyes water

that night, i burned silent, and i swear
no one stirred until i watched the sun rise, she was louder
that i had been

so i’m walking home through the ashes
shoes in hand
and he won’t stop talking about that coffee shop
in the town i grew up in
and he won’t stop talking about her
he’s telling me things about himself that i didn’t ever want to hear
i’m asking
"where should i put these, and
what do you want me to do with them?”
but he won’t give me an answer

last year i put down my umbrella and doused myself in rainwater
and i’ve been cold ever since
so now theres something about that park
and something about that skyline
i can’t shake the feeling they’ve stolen from me
i go back there too often, even now
but i can’t quite remember what i’m looking for
i just hope i’ll know it when i find it again