Line by line In the skin just above her ribs The ink is seeping in And as the magic-hour moon Comes up above the tenements The tragic name appears
“He would have done the same for me”
Delicious sadness She likes to wash it down with wine The kind that comes in boxes White painted bicycle White painted flower on the ground A sacrament that sickens
“He would have done the same for me”
I know my hands are tied I know the ink has dried It’s to the bad text and the sad text that we listen harder It’s when the makeup runs we lean in really close
What will keep her clean this evening? What will make her fancy free?
