eventually,
they all go,
one by one,
like paper boats
in a downpour
towards a drain.

along the gutter
they float,
effortlessly.
until they
disappear.

and you wonder
why they went
like that, and
what you did
so wrong.

𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎
𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎,
𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘
𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜
𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎
𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏
𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 – 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎
𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 – 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚔, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚖𝚢
𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚒𝚝’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎.