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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