I’m sweeping up every part of myself
I’ll remember it all
Confusion on the dance floor
The pumping sounds from chairs that broke
So we put them back together
And everytime that someone else
Fell victim to it’s crumbling
We laughed and laughed and laughed again
Too hungover to care to dream
Of days that are less than cold

Over ourselves like long-lost sons
If every Sunday is prodigal
Leave it that way, it’s possible
That romance isn’t what we made it

Because the doctor called you out
For eating birthday cake on weekdays
Like a hooligan from Harlem

But we were all perched on the countertop
Hey, baked goods for brunch
Post-party depression
You said you preferred to wash the dishes
Because the local watering hole comes from a faucet
And mixes well with the dish soap

Sundays with rolling turning thunder
Rollicking under the floorboards
A trembling pair of washed-up dress shoes
But the trees stay silent.