Trite

She's on the edge of my bed with my last cigarette
And she's looking harder than the end should be
Those accusationary eyes
Another urge to cry out
But she can't find the matches again no
And when I think about the sweat
Undressed to all excess
I question where my mind should be yeah
This is just not the same
I've memories of flames
Oh sweet memories
Of when I was with you
Oh with you
Oh of when I was with you
Oh oh with you
You
The highway seems sacred at night
Splinters of light directing apparitions to me
I drive faster to escape sunlight
An advent of lies on the streets point at me
Why is it always the same
I got memories of flames
Oh sweet memories
Of when I was with you
Oh with you
Oh of when I was with you
Oh, oh when I was with you
In all my impressions of life
Post-modern sublime
I lose the prescribed remedy
We seem to quickly lose sight
Oh that may sound trite
But I will not choose disbelief (She's on the edge of my bed with my last cigarette)
(Oh sweet memories)