3AM in Chicago

Skull full of whiskey magic
The city shakes it's fists
And pulses in time
With the veins in my head.

Dead bird in the gutter
Worms crawl in its eye

The night is rusted
And tastes like ash and wet rubber
The hooker on the corner
Turns away when she sees

Neon puddles of green and red
Steam from the manholes
There's blood on my face
And I don't know why or whose
But I think
It may be
Yours.

You think you know

You think you know
But you don't

You think you see
But you don't

Inside it's all black
Blood red crimson
With splashes of chromium steel
And the twisting squeak of leather
And sometimes I think
sometimes I'm almost sure
sometimes I know
That I'm not quite
sane

And maybe you know about that
And maybe you see that
And maybe despite that
You love me.

You're reasons seem
Inscrutable
To me
Yet there it is, and there you are
Open
Patient
Waiting for the black to fade
So the warm blue-green of you
Can cover me whole.

(If I'll let it)