Two rails. Two lifelines in the night. Two running rails of mercury. They run far out into the bleakness, back to Turlock, fading finally out of sight...even the moonlight losing track of them at last. I can't see them anymore. All I can see is your eyes, black, blacker, you black-eyed son of a bitch. I try to see into them, those black eyes, try to penetrate the shielding black lashes, slip in under the black brows, infiltrate the drug-dark centers and arrive inside you. Somewhere.
And I think, that for once, I find you there.
So here we are, you and I; you can't wait to leave, I wait for the train. From your pockets, your belt, and your other secret places come parts of your life: the .45, the .38, the long stainless blade and the treasured titanium...the only parts of you that are engineered, planned and precise.
You know, I don't know why we have to do this. I always believe you, but mightn't it be better to make love at this point, and just die the small death...holding each other close?
No. I always believe you. Even when I shouldn't.
So you take your pick, and I'm not surprised: you're the only white boy I've ever known who liked to dance with the knife. Not enough drama in the bullet. I just can't place my feelings. I'm here. I'm not here. You're here, then before I'm ready, you're not . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Born of the desert, and there you die. When the train comes I'll join you. 'Til then I hold you close to keep you warm.