black boots in the white

Lights up over Burlington, I light up and the air is so thin, I take a breath I, lose control and, it’s always Church Street in the dead of winter, buried in the snow with a hint of, a little problem, a little solvent, black boots in the white, you think we’ll miss it?

Here we are whiskey breath on your doorstep, peeling off layers of regret, slipping on ice, saying these words so trite. I know I'll miss it, I think I've lost it, another February in your cellar and another year lost to the high. Another year lost to the high.