the playground of Nietzsche,
behind the snack bar boiler room.
troubled silence,
everything concerning love.
taken for a spin,
near the train yard,
near the blossoms,
I am nothing
in the long run.
moonlight and whiskey breath,
we are the cause of our own deaths,
but we can't be dramatic,
because songs beat us.
so many gals have said
they would take me how I am,
but none of them are left,
just shards of glass
and the days' mazes.
move away from missing,
and talk to fear as if it were real,
because it isn't,
you can't touch it.