But let's talk about you for a minute, with the vomit at your gullet,
From a half bottle of vodka that we'd stolen from the optic.
On the back seat of your car, because it wasn't safe to start it,
You were "far too fucked to drive" were the words that you imparted.
And the woolen dress that clung so tight,
To the contours of your body,
And the dead grass stuck to the fibers from us
Rolling in the layby,
Were passed to dog-haired blankets
That protected the bench seat covers,
And a crucifix was hung from the rearview
Mirror by your mother.
I'm leaving my body to science;
Not medical but physics.
Drag my corpse through the airport
And lay me limp on the left wing.
Drop me at the highest point
And trace a line around
The dent I leave in the ground:
That'll be the initial of the one you will marry
Now I'm not around
I flew for seven hours,
The sky didn't once turn black.
I wake from sleep, my head and shoulders
Wet against the window.
A Frost had formed and melted,
Soaked me right through to my collar bone.
If you were given the option of dying painlessly in peace at forty-five,
But with a lover at your side,
After a full and happy life.
Is this something would interest you?
Would this interest you at all?