cynical dwellings.

it wasn't like you at all to start reigning and being safe for the sake of those weak words we all attribute to etiquette. and i don't expect that now, even in the morose nightmares of why can't my pillow smell like you anymore.

and it's easy to convince myself that you're sleeping somewhere without headaches, body full of nicotine, quarter-full bottle of jack perpetually rolling out of your hand like the best writing binge you ever went on.

like you said, i never chose that mild, sunny path. briar patches and achy shadows held all my best adventures. and we won't find sex and alcohol in heaven, in those misleading clouds of angels. in the starry headquarters of misinformation, all we find is that desolate feeling of two minutes after last call. all we meet are sell-outs who can't name one mineral song and college girls saving it for their one chance with donnie darko, taking up clouds eight, nine, and ten.

heaven's no fun, baby. i'd rather see you propping those so worn docs up on lucy's coffee table and sweating bullets than fancy you rolling your eyes to another stale comment from the safest of sinners.

but i know you're out there, talking shit about the beatles and thumbing through back issues of transmet. i know you're still looking on, telling them all to take a motherfucking risk for once, making sure that safety doesn't tempt me.