the last thing you ever wrote

walking home on a tuesday night comes with such doubtful sanity, such strange correlations
if i wonder what you're doing and wander halfway home, if i play my old self if i sing my old song will you come back? i doubt it more than me.
and here i am, rubbing resin into my wounds, lighting fire, bending spoons with
all sorts of doubts and frowns, but most of all i'm angry that you ever pretended to be my north star. you are charybdis. so i'll sail the other way.
this feels so posthumous.
oh, hamlet, would you mourn for the fallen pretender? would you shout, "seems, madam?" even before she quit herself of the innocent robes? no, i think you would have fallen for it as hard as i have. you would have drowned in regrets, but you would have fallen hard.
walking home on a tuesday night, looking forward thinking back, spliced up lives all in my head. i've had my thoughts, my heart has bled.