How many fucking times do I have to remind you
that I leave work at seven? So you can pile up
your afternoon plans in a nostalgia fire
and save them for the weekend, when I'm not so tired
and I don't feel like a bore.

Give me silence in return (that's so suitable);
pair it with sarcasm - you spent the whole week
sharpening its tip. I can feel it in the tone change
when your eyes empty as you look back at me.

There's no blame here. Life's just suddenly driving us apart
and you're the only one who still ties time on my shoulders.
One day, you'll reminisce, after a familiar melody,
and I hope you feel tenderness instead of rancor.
You can call me back when that anger has been soothed;
we'll grab a couple of drinks and ramble about youth.
Maybe we'll hug all the grief out and slowly go back
to the times when our plans were scheduled under stars.