I kissed your picture on the dash
gasoline on 67th, shut my eyes with all my might
face my last death, ignition turned
buckle up; driving to Valhalla tonight.

sometimes less words is worth more, to describe regrets of a life lived in hindsight
the final spike in that slippery railway, recapitated hitch-hike thumb slows me down 
enough to get a break, aboard the tunnel with the light so far away
the one I saw in your misty eyes as you handed my life back to me, saying
"I can't have this anymore."
You must have remembered what I'd tell myself I'd naught to, for regrets:
the wreckless, smiling manic life before, shed its skin to reveal me
just me
the limping and the wet
and how I was, all that I was, the venom stinging through my head called blood alive
fortune took the warriors, and I was left to writhe.

You're that silvery shrapnel, pressing in on my heartbeat
when you told me a story I sought out to erase:

'with a tear on your cheek and axe in your heart
carried on, an atrophy of everything but those amputations
dragged, blades first, your mantra stronger than your breath
to disassemble it all under the orange fires of your revelation.'

that's when i died for the first time, when the snow and the pain of dragging those boots became too heavy; when something finally broke that wouldn't be soaked in vodka and cauterized or simply left behind.

now I'm dead again.