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.