| The workdays were propping the bar Quietly erasing the week
|
| And I was in a corner-booth
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| Thinking, pretending to read, about the impossibility
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| Of one to love unconditionally
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| And the words that we drive into the ground
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| Their repetition starts to thin their meaning
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| Then everything got frighteningly still
|
| As they entered and intersected the floor
|
| And I tried to choke my stare at the
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| Perfection that others would kill for
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| But all of the parts are the same on every face- few variables change
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| The differences pale when compared
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| To the similarities they share
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| Finally, there is clarity
|
| And there is purpose after all
|
| But every night ends the same as I’m
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| Collapsing once more by your side
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| Finally, there is clarity
|
| This tiny life is making sense
|
| And every drop numbs the both of us
|
| But I alone am staggering |