he's not a man who smiles in search,
of shedding his sins in bars or church.
she's not a girl whose compass clings,
to homes or cars or living things.
every night, he walks back home,
cars pass by, engines roar,
dusk follows him, to his door.
every day she thinks she'll leave,
but where she lies, it's warm inside,
the world outside, now far too cold.
half a bottle from last night remains,
he puts it to his lips,
he swallows with greed.
ice for the burn,
felt vain long ago,
company the catalyst no longer of need.
every night he asks himself,
how many drinks,
he swallowed straight,
the night he dared, to dance with death.
he cannot remember, he can't recall,
his stupor that night, had him enthralled.
now he sits alone, his bottle empty,
now he goes to his closet, oh he keeps bottles plenty.
fourteen years have passed him by,
since the night, he trifled with life,
but ironies must burn ever strong,
for it wasn't him, who paid the price.
half a bottle down, he staggers to bed,
not a night goes by that he doesn't regret,
driving with her,
in the passenger seat,
with his senses lost,
to whisky neat.
headlights shine, in the back of his mind,
he brakes, he turns,
the wheel in his hands,
trires screech in the dark of the night,
a pain explodes, a blackness expands.
two halves emptied, he goes to bed,
eyes closed, his fears at rest.
intoxication, is the only way,
he can see her again,
until night turns day.
the bed by his side,
is cold tonight,
and will be so, the nights to come,
cold as the fires of their upturned car,
inside which trapped, her life came undone.
people say they drink to forget,
but he drinks to remember.
for those lost to death,
can only be met,
that minds when numbed,
can bear to recollect.