It's two eighteen.
And soon it will be two nineteen.
And then two twenty.
It's all very consistent, this passing of time.
I hate that about you.
But you, two eighteen,
Are one of my favorites.
You're that moment when you have to contemplate
Whether to call this morning or night,
And that's all i can ask for, really,
From a thing so predictable.
You, two eighteen, are a time for climbing out
Of my window with only a
Candle, a double shot of espresso,
And shitty poetry floating out of
My shitty mind.
In the time it's taken to write this down,
Nine minutes have passed.
And you're gone, two eighteen.
I do sometimes wonder where it is you go
After your sixty seconds of existence.
And maybe i miss you.
Or maybe i just miss shitty poetry and
Timeless rooftop rants.
But you left me, two eighteen.
And so, i suppose,
None of the rest
In the end.
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