before the ritual of departing,
we return to the starting
point, a dimly lit joint
known for its drinks
we call for two glasses
(because sharing is caring),
the ice in them clinks,
and a sober evening passes.
so we call for the bill, add tips,
and as we mouth goodbyes,
smiles worn on stretched-out lips
don't quite reach our eyes.
S.S. Hope sets sail and sinks
and what's left of our drinks,
diluted by the sad remains
of long-since broken ice,
leaves vaguely matching stains.
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