what else is left
when there's only bits of fabric
slipping between my fingers
my sweat ridden,
sore,
and varnished hands.
two decades and one more
no hearts to lean on
or up against
only friends as fucked up as me
looking to call out in the black
i can't even write
i'm still high
I spent it all away
some honesty
I have feelings for her
but she'll never for me
looks like i'm back where i started again.
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