The workdays were propping the bar quietly erasing the week
and I was in 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 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 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 usbut I am alone staggering.

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