It’s quarter to five and the night is closing in,
outside in the darkness the street’s filling up with rain.
I think of the moment that I’ll see your face,
and of the gravity of the things I must say.
It’s quarter-past six but I’m not sure if I’ll make it,
to the place where we agreed that our love would die;
where we’ll cut ourselves clean away from these tethers,
and become estranged once again from each other’s lives.
Through thick waves of people, I emerge late in the square
but I’m here now, I made it, so let’s get this thing done.
You’re the picture of heartbreak, I can barely begin,
but I know as soon as we’re done here, I can forget all my wrongs.
You swallowed the truth in one single breath,
and squeezed it deep down into your gut.
The pain came blistering fast across your face,
my words are like salt working into the cut.
Your fingers so soft as they come up to greet me
in answer to the sharpness of my tongue.
My conscience falls to the floor, humbled and broken
and begs your forgiveness for the things that I’ve done.
It’s quarter to seven, I’m standing alone in the square,
the sting in my cheek would just not abate.
For the streetlights burned down on me like a thousand suns,
with all the world’s guilt, and anger, and hate.