| The yellowed page of the books and books I’d forgotten that I had
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| These paperbacks they know their age they smell of weight and time that’s
|
| resting warm
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| The opened box beside the endless box parade that haunts my house
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| Is fit to split with photographs that tell the wanderlust of years smashed on to years
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| When all this actual life played out
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| Where the hell on Earth was I?
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| I rack my brains but it won’t come
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| Through water damaged bloodshot eyes
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| The fleeting triumphs, brazen lies
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| All seem to mingle into one
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| I read your name under words in your elegant hand you probably don’t mean now
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| I fold the letter and think of a million and one things that I could have done
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| different
|
| When all this actual life played out
|
| Where the hell on Earth was I?
|
| I rack my brains but it won’t come
|
| Through water damaged bloodshot eyes
|
| The fleeting triumphs, brazen lies
|
| All seem to mingle into one
|
| One gigantic fairy tale
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| Of friends I haven’t seen in years
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| Drinking 'til the daylight hurts
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| You seem friendly who are you?
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| That’s a lot of wine that we got through
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| We’ve made playtime look like work
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| Please just take these photos from my hands. |