As I talk to myself,
You come to the door
Where you let me in
With books on your back
I move through the hallway
Towards a half-emptied bedroom,
Drop off my liquor,
And head back to you
In your room
I watch you pack,
Though mostly we laugh
And talk about love:
The type I’ve stopped feeling
The all too deflating
Of which—I’m not sure
We learn to pretend
You point to your rope
Say, “Oh it has no use.”
But I say, “sad things need
Their tools, to be brought
Home with you.”
“Oh well, that’s what I’ll do.”
She said that’s what she’ll do.
She said that’s what she’ll do,
For that’s what she’ll do.
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