Not romantic in the slightest.

all i have is this yellow chair.

it's dusty and chipped, and from god-knows-where.

it was sitting in a pile of your shit.

i think i stole it from you when we split.

i put it in front of my window to look at the stars.

i wonder if you're with her, or at one of your bars.

i look at the moon, and i sit and think.



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