The evasive murmur of the past
As the fire drips into my absinthe
Wasn’t you who ever dropped my glass
But myself who’s chronically absent.
People always tend to come and go
Emptiness they feed to my confusion
Love to tell me that I “should have known”
While offering a meaningless illusion.
The disgraceful slumber of my mind
With all seatbelts chronically fastened
Echoes sadly every damning lie
As the fire drips into my absinthe.