The ribs of the moon.

You are the melancholy foghorn
melting thunder away

you are the love beneath the limelight
begging your fire to stay

you are the dreams in every demolished sky

the love in every dilated eye

your heart bleeds bleach, and you don't ask why

you are a tragic stranger, just passing by.

just passing by.

just pass me by.

but what do you do when you get where you're going
and all you want to do is leave?

trace the ribs of the moon with a jealous finger
and all you want to do is leave.