I don’t really remember you, or the rest of your story.
I don’t know your name, nor the direction you’re headed on the way home.
After last night,
I might waste myself on the couch again through the weekend.
Not getting excited about the idea of Monday.
I don’t really remember you, but what is this feeling of longing.
Distracting and bothering.
(I thought,)
I don’t really remember you.
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