The Night Is Nothing

It wouldn’t matter if you were blonde,
if your skin was soft and clear.
There is nothing.
There is nothing.
There is nothing.
There is nothing for you here.
Stink of weed and cigarettes in your clothes.
That wasn’t you and it always shows.
This is nothing.
This is nothing.
This is nothing.
This is nothing but a pose.
So few stars, just sickly yellow streetlights.
There is no warmth in this top and dark tights.
This was nothing.
This was nothing.
This was nothing.
This was nothing but a mistake, dead to rights.
If she’d been true, and pure, she’d have loved you
as you were, lost and mad and always so very blue.
She was nothing.
She was nothing.
She was nothing.
She was nothing but a mockery of your angel hue.
Mom might be waiting up, not ever worth the trouble.
Dad will be asleep until roused, with his sad eyes and stubble.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing.
A night is nothing unless your love comes from the same rubble.
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