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I used my guitar to drink away the pain the last time,
But it seems to slice straight through my fingers when I pick it up,
Your words, my music and the thought of the orgasm,
My Brompton cocktail.
But what do you do when the memories of sustenance become the poison in your throat?
I fell in love with a ghost,
A creature that wasn’t capable of love, given or received,
For how do you hug a specter?
How do you kiss lips that simply aren’t there?
My alcohol-fueled nights,
Have turned into endless morphine cycles,
I bent my spine so pathetically,
That I can’t straighten up without excruciation.
Love is a two-way street, they say,
And so was mine.
The only problem is, there was two-way traffic on a one-way street.
Crash after crash after crash.
I lay there, in the wreckage of a heart-shaped car,
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