Our love went stale like the old smoke on your clothing, the heaviness of us hanging in the air until we suffocated left behind is Ashes on a filthy table. Memories of you ricochet off the walls, which still Mark your rig age. Holes that stare with hollow hunger. Places once called home. I think a depressant might up the ante when it comes to the kind that think want lives in panties intoxication promising escape. While I here, we lost sight of this