It's an industrial town
Full of clubs and bars
And cremes in jars
That belong to girls like you
Whose hearts were left out in the rain.
I am made of lace
The judicious use
Of empty space
And just in case
I might have thought myself too fine,
You were there to remind
Me that I am worse than plain.
I'm sorry it's 6 a.m. on a Sunday.
I'll join the ghosts you keep like an arsenal in your head,
Slip out the door and come back no more;
You'll say, "She wasn't what she seemed,
Just something that I dreamed."
A Smoke Girl, gone away
A keeper of your kiss, a dancer with the dead.