Cohen’s Voice Sounds like Whiskey Filtered Through Gravel

It's  four in the morning, the end of December  
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better  
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living  
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening  
   
I’ve written bygone letters  
and had 4am eyes more times than most  
even realise  
I’ve found it in the echo of steel-caped boots  
on asphalt and in the mist of my breath as I wrestle  cold wrought iron gates  
   
however December here is an inferno  
similar to the one we melted  
the neighbours eyes with  
when we left the blinds open  
my melancholy tastes like  
blue rain and cold tears  
my coat doesn’t work here  
though I love where I’m living  
as I descend into madness  
because the drought has cut through  
all the pretty lies  
   
I can’t see you wear that  
famous blue raincoat  
though it might be for the best  
because my heart is brittle and was never  
made to withstand you or me  
or every poor decision I poured  
into glass over ice  
   
I can still taste your lips  
and the silent moment  
our breathing came back to normal  
 
I still have the lock of your hair  
framed next to a revolver  
so I can blow my brains out with it  
every day  
 
but at least it’s 4am and  
I can cling to those memories  
before the sun burns them from my eyes