The working days were propping the bar quietly erasing the week
and I was in a corner booth thinking (pretending to read)
about the impossibility of one to love unconditionally
and the words that we drive into the ground:
their repitition starts to thin their meaning.
Then everything got frighteningly still as they entered and intersected the floor
and I tried to choke my stare 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 similarities 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.