Seems like setting a rose on fire, like
Erasing yourself from already painted canvases , like
Plucking out raw grapes from a ripe grapevine
And their sourness seeping into the blood, like
Raging hot liquor against your throat, like
A needle being dragged against a writing slate, like
Two roads diverged in the woods, and you stood there, knee-deep
In the quicksand as they walked away.
Once again, it’s the same discomfort of
Never getting used to saying ‘Goodbye’.