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Bored in a city of excess |
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The mirror captures his spine |
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Curved like a sickle in excess |
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Self pity, his faults become my own |
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He vomits endlessly into our carpet, |
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Something in it is shining |
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My eyes are pools of blood |
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I don't turn to look at him |
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He's burnt out matchsticks |
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He leaves blisters |
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A map of the lost doesn't have him on it |
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Scars I dreamt disappear upon walking |
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We're walking broken soldiers in the city we destroyed |
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He doesn't believe in ghosts but he looks in the mirror |
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The map of the lost finds him right here |
