Just my way to feed into the ache
Just my way to stake a case
To rake up the past, with indelicate haste
Yet how many have been gifted such a life
How many have lifted themselves from the miasma
How many have been lifted by your lift
How many gifts so gifted by your smile
One more sip of Cherry Cola
One more line spoken into the microphone
One more sigh that says; yes, it is all over
One more time, for the missed call on the telephone
One right foot on the accelerator
One piece of mischief to tell her of later
I am my own, yes, I am my own propagator
I could tell you; that no, no I do not hate her
No way, for after all she was my first, new-self creator
And in between the doubt and the dust piles
Maybe the diamonds were the silent instigator
If I brush away the rust files, I might just ask to date her
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