furthest to the left.
8:30 p.m.

he's sitting six feet away from me,
wrapped up in lies and wondering
and he's wondering if this is it
if he's hit the top
"god, i hope not,"
and finishes it off.
he's writing love songs that you'll never read
this concept of hate, the shake
and
the
bleed.
his wings weigh him down and
the rain keeps him dry.
the glimmer i used to see has been
replaced with a stationary tear
effectively masking any sincere intent.
and when he sings in that rich tenor voice
all i can hear is his scream.

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