i twirl the pages of 25
holding onto things which used to be fine
i scream the words at the top of my lungs
how we danced in heaven to dine in hell
a blood bath i recalled all too well
the soft sensation of zinfandel
i said i’d meet you at the station of here and never
holding onto things we knew wouldn’t ever
standing in rotation, i feel his essence
launching to oblivion, yet i kept his pace
a handsome face with handsome legs
soft touch which wouldn’t fade
on the corner of beverly
a hand in my pocket with the other in hell
i could feel his ego at my wall
picking to become, becoming the latter
you hold their hands to hold their heaven
but sometimes you hold their hell
standing at the edge of here nor there
whispering a song
you knew all too well
on the corner of beverly