And you will come home–too late–to a table fully set. You’ll know my plate. It’ll have the shortest serving. Lusty for loneliness, it will be nowhere to be found. I’ll never talk about my day, you’ll never ask how it was. I’ll sleep well knowing none of it was mine. This is my last attempt ever.
I will be a tragic walking joke to you. I will choke of you. I’ll eat in silence as you tell me the everything. This will be the most comfortable place I’ve been. We’ll leave three wine bottles for every next morning. I’ll die with every comma. Fuck, I’ll die with your breathing. Good night, I am dying.
You’ll let it make you too hot, and it will be regrettable tomorrow. You’ll quiver in the morning, you’ll squeal at night with my service. I will never write again.
Please: never let my grandchildren read this.
weatherfield loves us
