Late

Standard

Every road ends at you, ends at him, ends at you and her,

not me and him.

You and her, if that’s it I’ll do nothing.

Red covers throats, covers wrists, it’s going to cover your grave before long.

Seeping over, covering the white roses you never bought me

If it had been anyone, it would have been you.

Except you were busy, or leaving, sometimes not thinking.

Arms holding me up, hands laying me down;

you taught me.

and then you ended me.

and it would have been fine.

if you had showed up.

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