In the Wee Hours at the End of the World

It’s all over now. Smashing our way
through the dead wood of this thick, old forest,
thick with destruction and mistruth. Each lie ticking away
with the perpetuity of an antiquated timepiece,
filling the silence between us for its own sake.
All gone and over and thank you very much.

Goodbye, we say, to all those things we never
managed to be. All those tricks that flattened out
the ruff edges of truth we’d pretend not to notice.
All those happy little endings and expectations
dressed in white but false and empty.

I now wonder aloud, drunk with vodka
in the wee hours at the end of the world,
drunk with the clarity of loneliness and acceptance:
Who the fuck did we think we were fooling?
What right did we ever have to believe…

One thing’s for sure: No one ever said it would be easy.
And, as if it our ultimate excuse, that’s exactly
what we’ll tell everyone else. They were bloody well right,
is what we’ll say just as if it were true.

And when I look back on it, it becomes apparent
that for only the briefest moment between when the words
actually left your mouth and reached my ears, that
nanosecond of floating expectation when anything
can be anything, did I ever really believe you.


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