I wonder, often, how you could be so cruel.
Such a disconnect in your voice,
(beautiful as it is)
while you sing songs of me
(of us)
and strum your fingers on my bones.
(percussion never sounded so good).

I recall days,
nights,
between your sheets,
between you and your soul
(and your inevitable guilt)
lingering above me, false,
(I'm trapped under assembly line roofs).

Those bones you played on
are on their own now.
Prancin halls,
painting walls
(growing thier own flesh).

Go ahead my Knight
(my Night)
and ride your amber bottle stead
to the next sunset.

The skeletons will play in the streets
(your streets)
with,
or without
your consent.