You killed me or you killed you, but one of is dead.
And you killed you according to the obituary I read.
Dragged your coffin around too long. Your ghost escaped.
So now you're haunting, breaking dishes. You creep around behind the drapes.
The tired highways and razor train tracks encircle and journey across states and states and states.
They run from your wrists, cross down your arms, down your back, as skin rink is traced by bloody ice skates.
Pink clouds darken, turn red, then ocher. Bare bulb above you in a bathtub.
Since your demise you're so goddamn amiable but I refuse to take calls from beyond the grave.
Don't fret, love, no it's nothing personal. Matter of habit for the most part
To tell the truth, I've a message for ya. So get out your decoder pen.