nothing owed.

the last time i was at this bar, i sat at this table. the table by the window. despite the cold radiating through. the last time i was at this bar, i looked out this window and noted the frigid quarter notes of exhaled thoughts hanging in the street. last time i was at this bar, i wanted to pack up and leave. this city. this state. and all of its waste. now, i'm sitting in this bar wondering what sort of girl i'll be. i'm sitting, wondering ' what sort of girl will it be 'next time'. when i am caught here the next time. and i sit there wondering if i'll notice the next time or if it'll make me want to stay.