the workadays were propping the bar quietly erasing the week and I was in a
cornerbooth thinking (pretending to read) about the impossiblity of one to love
unconditionally and the words that we drive into the ground: their repetition
starts to thin their meaning.
then everything got frighteningly still as they entered and intersected the
floor and I tried to choke my stare at the perfection that others would kill
for. but all of the parts are the same on every face (few variables change). the
differences pale when compared to the similarity they share
finally there is clarity and there is purpose after all, but every night ends
the same as I'm collapsing once more by your side.
finally there is clarity: this tiny life is making sense. and every drop numbs
the both of us, but I alone am staggering.
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