The sun is here and I loosely wait for it to leave,
the little dog barks and I read yet another dirty poem,
washing the dishes and missing New York,
clowning around in old wrinkled photos of your different smiles.
The sun is here and I run away to my drinks,
the speakers play some Buckley and I have some expired milk,
crying with emotional tv ads and dropping a jar of sweet sweet honey to the ground,
I seat here and remember the Fiddlesticks pub in the winter.
The sun returns and I turn my back to every smile,
my mind lands in your tiny bed and we become sweat,
playing our songs and doing the blame game,
the night gets here and I could care less.
The sun is here and I feel old again, bruised and used.
The sun leaves me again. He always does.
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