The workdays 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 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 k** 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