Trite

She's on the edge of my bed
With my last cigarette
And she's looking harder
Than the end should be

Those "accusationary eyes"
Another urge to cry out
But she can't find the matches again

And when I think about the sweat
Undressed to all excess
I question where my mind should be

This is just not the same
I've memories of flames
Oh sweet memories

Of when I was with you
Oh with you

The highway seems sacred at night
Splinters of light
Directing apparitions to me

I drive faster to escape sunlight
An advent of lies
On the streets to point at me

Why is it always the same
I've memories of flames
Sweet memories

Of when I was with you
Oh with you

In all my impressions of life
Post-modern sublime
I lose the prescribed remedy

We seem to quickly lose sight
Oh that may sound trite
But I will not choose disbelief

She's on the edge of my bed
With my last cigarette
Oh sweet memories