hm.
to all the home wreckers and tone inflectors.
all the terrible two's and the bruised booze blues.
i've got a message the intercom won't disclose.
the lowest point in the world is the view from a broken heart.
and the loudest noise is the clinking of ice in your half empty glass of gin and tonic.
i don't have to remind you that pigment after pigment, and mile after mile.
you'll still be in some form of self-induced denial.
someday, even the ghosts won't know which door to open.
and you will know how lonely feels.
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