My lips pull another
slow drag
off of
my smoke,
Cupping it in my
hand –
A feeble attempt
to keep it dry
in the pouring rain.
All of those emptied
bottles were
as short-lived
as these soggy
cigarette days
The half-hearted sex,
the whole-hearted lust
wasted
Toils and
triumphs
wasted
And themillions
and millions of
raindrops,
wasted.
The rain never stops.
But it is good.
It hits you just hard
enough to know
you’re alive,
even when
you’re numb
and your
spirit is dead.
Now if I could
only find a smoke
that stayed dry
in the rain…,
then I’d never
have a need for
the sun.
Leave a Reply