“It’s a wonder to find
That a man who found so much comfort
In the burning of his throat
The burning of his lungs
And the numbness in his fingers
The walls spinning
The hitting of the ground
And now
No comfort is found
But I guess when you do
Something so much for no reason
And then you find a reason
It all loses it’s meaning
Loses it’s flare
Realize it’s not what it’s cracked up to be
But it’s not the bottle
I want on my lips
It’s not the smoke
I want to take my breath away
It’s not the pills
I want in my hand
It’s you
It’s the way you run
Your hands through my hair
Scratch at my beard
Hold my hand with both of yours
Press hard against me
When we kiss
I could write a million lines
Just like those, all about you
And what you do to me
And I might do just that
Because I write what’s on my mind
And lately, good or bad
It’s you”