A mourning soul, nothing more
than a half carton of Marlboros,
stands there pleading for an escape.
I understand why, but seeing myself
in another is too hard to handle.
All I can do is accept his wish and pass
my lighter over, hoping it'll provide
some comfort and resolve.
Then the utterance of passing chatter
withers into solitude.
Can I borrow you lighter?
Categories:
Comments
Sort Comments By