As
simple as pulling the trigger.
As
obvious as history.
Drove
down deserted side streets
in the
fading light of December
until
we found the door.
Fucked
on a cold wood floor
until
we bled.
Called
it joy,
because
silence was an admission
of
guilt.
Called
it pure,
because
nothing we owned
would
ever wash clean.
No one
we knew ever really cared
when it
was finally over.
The
world was already full of
obvious
stories
with
unhappy endings.
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