She slumps against the bar,
her head pressed to the sticky surface.
She sits at the table of broken hearts, and dreams.
She pours her sorrows in a shot glass too full,
and swears she'll never go back again.

He sits with a wounded heart,
drenched in a vague memory of what was happiness.
He fills his gut with the burning liquid he calls home,
and swears that life is better alone.

They sit with one dream or another,
shattered in a pile of wasted energy on the floor.
A hopeless beginning with no end,
that always began with "what if?,"
that exist with one closing door.

It doesn't matter,
when the lights go out,
and the spotlight moves on,
leaving you in a windowless room of smog,
no mind to what might be on the outside.

All there is, is the comfort of the wine that numbs the sting.
And a new dream of what the shattered one might bring.