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I sit alone at your table with a photo of your daddy and a mug that says ‘Mondays, if I’m able…’
And the joke’s not lost on me,
But I’m too old to be ironic, some balding cry for mummy
Well, enough about my ‘situ’
I am well aware that each and every problem has an issue
And I know you hate your boss now,
So naturally I hate them, too, that’s what a partner ought to do
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but re: everything between you and I,
I’m really feeling hashtag blessed

Is there a pill I can take?

I quite like Murakami,
But sometimes I want my heart to break in just a singular reality

When did everyone get married?
Well I guess I have all this free time to write
How’s about some more dogs, baby?
I can’t be this scared all my life

I want to be as feared as a knock at the door at an unsociable hour,
Or a slow passing car
Or an unrehearsed speech
Or a letter of summons
Or a confident woman

Now I have left your table
That’s not a metaphor for anything