In my head I'm a cowboy,

A real western gunslinger;

Cool hat and leather boots

With a taste for Bauhaus architecture and fine liquor.

I ride in like I ride out;

Unknown yet adored,

Adored yet unloved;

Bad joke personified;

Long drags of a cigarette,

Bona fide Bogart

Born on the back of a brumby,

My one friend and trusty steed;

Companion in my race against time;

And just as I,

pursued by curses of lovers left behind–

Always close,

But not quite caught up.

A perfume and bourbon sort of aura

Feral and wild and unruly,

And emotional too, maddened by love;

But not quite yet.

 

Now I'm just a cowboy,

A real western gunslinger;

Resting by the waterpost,

Pretending not to notice you pretending not to look at me

Looking at you just the same

Ready to start begging to kiss your shadow

Or ready to start wanting to–

Hours pass like seconds and 

Your voice is exotic,

Your words onomatopoeias

For bird calls, Für Elise in early morning;

From a radio, so a bit of static–

A childhood spent in timid wonder;

I open my mouth,

Bold to your italic,

You ask if I've ever been to Paris,

Mention the roll of my r's;

I'm not French I just have a speech impediment 

But that's cooler so I suppose no ma'am, but my dad has;

Bone sewer.

Tip of the hat and I'm gone,

Riding out into the night,

A cigarette from the corner of my mouth–

A promise going up into smoke.

 

Years later I'll remember this

As I wander through Moscow,

And every place of worship it's got to offer; 

Searching for a god in a snowstorm,

Until I find the perfect garden

To lay down and die in. 

 

In my head I'm a cowboy,

A real western gunslinger;

Cool hat and leather boots,

And enough pretentiousness for two.

But my body's in bed, 

Eyes locked to the ceiling; 

I've really got to stop ghosting people.