Whether charisma or pure wit

I’m here with a twisted face rolling tears

We glance until 2 am telling reruns that are retold less accurately each time

4 am hits and I’m on the road again

Thinking about our first and last moment as I open my lips to retell our story to the next story

Then I’ll be on my way to the next place that I’ll slightly forget

and sometimes when 4 am hits I’ll think about those singular events in bliss

With a face rolling tears because I’ll only ever see them again in memory