3:31 AM on a Thursday night and I get it,
"I'm sorry"
You tell me halfheartedly from a beat up old phone your mother gave you six years ago.
Forever swimming further away from me in an ocean of bourbon and seaweed filled bowls.
My legs shaking
And my eyes watering
On what I'll blame on the southern cold that comes once a year.
About as often as you do.
We can catch up
And talk about our dysfunctional lives when we were 18 and closer
We can make up
And we can apologize for making things much more complicated than we should have.
But we'll realize all of this has just expired and gone stale