We could've ended it on a coffee.
Or maybe in the parking lot,
Smoking cigarettes on a freezing night.
Maybe, endings don't work that way.
Maybe, there's nothing good about
Good things coming to an end.
You could've waited for the last
Drop of whiskey to fall,
Or maybe I should have prayed for
The sun to not settle that evening.
The rain is here. So is my melancholy.
Fuck acceptance and all the
wordly understandings.
Maybe, there's a reason why
This coffee never tastes the same.
Maybe I never understood any of this.
Maybe, I was never ready.
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