Star pieces fall to the ground,
crunch beneath our feet like gravel,
as we dance down destiny's driveway.
It's not about you yet,
it becomes about you.
You fall off your high stool,
crashland next to me,
as it should be.
I think you can smell the irony on my breath.
I step over a puddle of need on my way out the door.
Careful not to get it on my shoes.
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