Last Call

We have a small apartment above an off-track betting club. It's filled with angry losers and ripped up ticket stubs. The men all sit in plastic chairs or lean against the walls wondering if they'll make it to the bar before last call. They wander home at three a.m. to fall into their beds and think about the lives they've lost, somewhere inside their heads.

It's late and you're not here.
Somewhere in between the lines you've disappeared.

Now there's nothing left of you-- a tired ghost in hospital perfume. The sky's screaming in the dark, setting off the car alarms. So, take it as a warning sign or maybe just for piece of mind: When you're scratching at your scars, I'll remember who you are.

Now, the cigar smoke of an ugly man slowly ascends the stairs and it seeps into my pillowcase, and it settles in my hair. I wake up feeling nauseous because I know you are gone for good. I wish there were some way to tell you that I would help you if I could.

But I'm not the one with the golden claw. I'm just another circus. I live above a furnace. You're holding on to something worthless. Now we're out of time, wishing that I could have changed your mind.