before the pub crawl

and things had been going so well.

the sister talk, the stress and silence. you'll be coming by soon to close the door again.

will it be somehow, despite the late hour, before the evening's revelry? you, distant and resolute that tonight will be one for self-destruction, and i, numb, shattered.

or will it be tomorrow or in the coming days, a dispassionate litany of wrongs done spilling forth from your empty-eyed mask and the thought that he won't be coming back. no one could love me through this.

i think you have it within you to rally, shrug off the ink-black tendrils of thought driving you to seek emptiness at any cost, to stand firm and choose beautiful things. just not for me.