Sacrafices

The pills under my pillow.
The joint in your fingers.
Wind whistles through the willows,
like smoke from your lips.

You said that you'd be here.
I waited there for nothing.
Mabe it was all too unclear,
this he said, she said.

I'm way too cold.
You've too many issues.
This sob story's too old,
it's the same story, different faces.

I promise not to hurt you.
If you promise not to die.
We know it's impossible,

But everyone needs to make a sacrafice now and again.