He told me, every scar you have is going to tell a story
with both hands around your neck,
it's always going to be a sad one,
you are always going to be white washing the walls,
looking for white noise in all the wrong places
when all you're ever going to find is black,
some infinite place to rest your head -
it's not going to be beautiful.

You stay awhile, you memorize every line,
you play your part real good and cool until it's up,
you press your mouth to every artery and squeeze:
lap me up.

The Inuit, they have 25 words for snow, for cold,
and I press my mouth against your neck, your ear
and whisper dampness: i need just as many for sadness.