how can anything be real to someone like you?

you have no idea, not a clue, not a trace of dust or a fraction of a fingerprint, of understanding how it's been.

and yet. you look at me with those eyes, that weepy expression torn straight from someone else's hurt, all glossy and posed and shining with reflection.

all i can do is stand there with arms crossed, cigarette tipping, and spilling regret all over your nice hardwood floors, because i know that you can't stand my quiet.