Our lovesong is not a lovesong:
it's written in the in between.
My love for you is not a lover's:
it's keyboard, sword, and knight and queen.

So let's talk trash on the way to Milwaukee,
trade passports on our way across Manila skies.
Let's smoke cigars and drink rotten madeira,
and go get drunk on the redwood shores.

You bring the lighter, I'll bring the shovel,
you rent the suite, and I'll get the double.
You find the dive bar and I'll pour the cocktails,
you get the papers while I ride the coat-tails.

Ours is the grin and the straight shot conspiracy,
ours is the plane flight, the ten hour car drive.
Ours is the awkward in the bright morning after,
oars to the water, and every year after.

But you take Los Angeles, I'll take Sao Paolo:
you take the high road, and I'll take the gutter.
We'll both drink the whiskey and overheat motors,
we'll meet three seconds to midnight and every time after.

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