Our jobs

I wish I could tell you that my job doesn't bleed into us.

But when I come home late, squint at words, words, words, and can't see you,
we know the letting has come.

You wish you could tell me that your job doesn't bleed into us.

But when You come home early, mourn over my absence by fucking someone else,
we know the letting has come.

But I can't come home early,
and You can't come home late,
so when's our thicky thick milkshake
gonna turn into an empty wine glass?