i've smoked nearly two packs in the last weekend. granted some were given away, but they're burned up and on the sidewalk, in ashtrays i can never seem to reach. in bed with you is a hole i can't fill, a void that won't close, and a fond memory of what it was like to have stomach to back contact. i never appreciated that feeling until last night.i've got the stars aligned just right in order to meet you this afternoon. and, if i don't, i guess you'll say it's my fault, it's always my fault. i woke up this morning with stress in my neck and i can't hold my head high, how's that for symbolism? i'm going to smoke my last 8 cigarettes and let the tar fill my already crippled lungs, and i'll remember nights in your car, driving with your knees.
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