There's no money in the till.
There's no god in the west.
Spent the better part of yesterday with love,
and love got the better part of me.
Short of individuality, long of atrophy.
Forsaken, forgotten,
for every want of another word.
Because there is no such thing.
Because there's nothing better to do.
Because. With a grin on the side.
I'm nobody special.
I'm just a missing piece to the puzzle that never existed.
I'm the key to the door that isn't there.
Without shape. Without substance. Without reason.
Without regret.
When you turn your eyes away, I'm no longer.
When you silence my voice I'm oblivion.
When your skin forgets my lips I'm naught
but a distant, glimmering figment.
I'm that tune on the tip of your tongue.
I'm the smoke in the corner of your eye.
I'm just that quiet, somber boy
to whom you wouldn't give a chance.
