It’s not the scene. It’s you.

Those past passions held poorly, though, and you

Became something you Never wanted, could not imagine


And the life you could not live

Was eclipsed by greener grass and brighter stars.

Give me gunmetal sunsets after the red fades–

You can keep thumbing the pages of appendices

of miracles that did not happen (never would have happened)

in your catalog for future miseries.

Pause the pondering to watch the rise and fall of the

empire of each day, sick of thinking about you when the

air goes out of the room

And a thousand sleepless Sunday nights

Cripple progress

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