it’s in the air.

the chances,
they’re slim.
the outlook,
it’s grim

and the
night is
hard as she
is free.

your hair,
it sticks up;
your mouth
is a cup

and there’s
somewhere
you have to
be

(but you
can barely see).

smoking makes
you
beautiful,
just for a
minute,

and there’s
texture,
there is
taste

but your
heart,

she’s not
in it.

and the
night, the
night is
hard as she
is free.

the (beats),
they move,
like needles
deep in

a groove,

and the
score isn’t
something
you can see.

they’re notes
on a page
and you,
you’re the stage

(and there’s
somewhere
you have to be,

but you can
barely
see).

motion is
the mode
and feelings,
the code;

the braille
on your
skin,
that’s

the key.

calming, like
fire,
down here,
in the mire;

the place,
the
somewhere
that you have
to be,

(but you can
barely
breathe).

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