As someone sets light to the first fire of autumn 

we settle down to cut ourselves apart. 

Cough and twitch from the news on your face 

and some foreign candle burning in your eyes. 

Held to the past, too aware of the pending 

chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale. 

Enter the fog, another low road descending 

away from the cold lust, your house and summertime. 

Blind to the last cursed affair, pistols and countless lies

a trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft [bad word]  

Feed till the sun turns into wood, dousing an ancient torch 

loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love. 

Your name on my cast and my notes on your stay 

offer me little but doting on a crime. 

We've turned every stone and for all our inventions, 

in matters of love loss, we've no recourse at all. 

Blind to the last cursed affair, pistols and countless lies

a trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft [bad word]  

Feed till the sun turns into wood, dousing an ancient torch 

loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love.