Last week I thought about you on the Autobahn. Backlit on the edge of the forest. Blissed out with headphones on. Listening to deathbed confessionals. Want to find someone more dependable. Instead of me and my guillotine. Said you thought I was a lifer too. Every time we're back here you feel sick. That twin bed makes you feel like a kid. You apologize to me cause you can't help it. It's the notion that your body is never gonna change. The baby fat that's hiding in your cheeks won't fade. And you're not sure why, but when you leave the house you circle the block to cry. Do you think that we'll outrun it? Get past the pain of simply being? Every time you want out of your body, or can't get your head around this dream. You swore you loved it more when you couldn't guess the end. It's never adding up, but don't write yourself out of the equation. I see the crash down in the canyon. Let the wheel drift towards the median. Pretend you're not paying attention. We hit the ditch and flip -- suddenly my wrist is broken. I ask if you're okay with your head wide open. You smile for my benefit, cause no you aren't.