I’m think I’m going to dye my hair,
Something dark and mysterious,
or light and dreamy.
It is 11:15 on new years eve and I am sitting on the floor of my rundown apartment on the east side of the village,
The glass of wine, no longer chilled,
but my heart still cold as always.
I think I am going to dye my hair,
something vibrant and fun,
or maybe dull and lifeless,
like your eyes,
the day you told me the high you felt with me,
felt more like the come down from laced pills.
Maybe in the new year,
our memories can be erased,
We can start over,
down at that coffee shop on 8th and Maine,
The one with the dim twinkle lights in the left
rear window.
Maybe in the new year, I won’t be so broken,
I can tell you I love you without my tongue tripping over the words.
I think I’m going to dye my hair,
something as hopeful as the sun,
or sad like the mud,
11:45 and my bottle is empty,
my brain is full.
I wonder where you are,
what lips your mouth will be touching when the clock strikes 12.
Will she able to say I love you,
with the strength and confidence of a non scorned lover,
I think I’m going to dye my hair.
