You’re trying so hard to be who are

you’re sacrificing who you’ve been so far.

You’re having sex with nonsense and waking up in his arms.

You’re feeling sorry for yourself,

apologizing for everyone else.

How can an angel like you be telling herself such hell?

I won’t see you face for months over days.

You won’t think of me for most other states.

As you’re warming the sand of some unknown beach

and walking the streets of some broken city,

could you pretend that you were in love with me?

How can you write-off her being gone

if you can’t finish writing one song?

I’ll wait as long as your hair, but shoulder length’s not that long.

At all-night diners as suburban minors,

we’re under he table for what feels like hours.

Derived from the Latin word flos, you lie like a flower whose stem broke.

I took your metaphors hardly subdue.

You could learn a lot from the record’s I’ve loaned you.

Your name’s not Allison and my aim’s not true.

I’ve given this thought to the point of belief

in a promise more like a nuance to keep:

If you’ll be my Darsi, I’ll be your Chief.

Do you remember the cold of November

before you got dressed for the end of December?

Somehow you lost yourself up in Denver

before you got dressed for the end of December.