If you ask me, I remember it all,

the sad boys running across the lone streets into city lights

and silver tragedies aligning and distorting the stars under their feet

while the trains rumbled over broken tracks in the night air

only to roll down the edge of insomnia and asteroids

so why don't you ask me

about the sad boys

and what happened to them?

I recall their laughs echoing in the humid air under the bridges

spanning the periphery of lingering melancholy

while fate spooled the tapes of their disarrayed lives

back into the grunge cassettes with a pencil eraser

so why don't you ask me

about the sad boys

and what happened to them?

Oh why don't you ask?

Is it because I read it on the first page

of today's pale, morning newspaper

that silver tragedies

and insomnia and lingering melancholy and fate

are out in the search of sad boys

running across the lone streets into city lights

with laughs echoing in the humid air under the bridges?

Oh silly girl with sunken eyes, wild hair

and a face lost in the rings of cigarette smoke,

broken memories and walls dampened with vanilla dust,

is it because the details in the frail pages of the newspaper

describing all the disasters on the outlook of sad boys

somehow look just like you?

Author's Note