The Season Of Divorce

Call this a lock of hair
Call this a fingernail
Some New York voodoo to remember me by
Glenn says it's not a happy ending
But I disagree
I'm not so sure you aren't suffocating, too
More subtly

We were just children then
It comes to nothing
You can't disagree

You always moved my paintings upstairs
For company's sake
I hung my Ph.D. above the kitchen sink
Your blue-eyed green-eyed grey-eyed
Wire girl and debutante
I'm tired of being Isabel Osmond
If that's what you want

This supposed sanctity

So what are you still holding on for?
Your gift-wrapped, molded dreams?
Kid, you'll see me on the weekend outside

Oh, nevermind