The Smoker
There's this image in my head
of a smoker looking out at
whatever surroundings are on the horizon,
but there's that look in his eye, a sentiment
that I understand wholeheartedly...
She's not coming back.
The alternative song singing right now,
'Things Happen' by Dawes
just seems a little too real somewhow.
I don't really know where I'm going
with this, that is...
these words on virtual paper.
Is this what peace feels like?
The momentary relief in a
raging storm of testosterone fueled emotions.
I'm sure none of this makes sense to you,
the average reader,
and I'm doubly sure this makes no sense to you,
the lady who opened this door for me.
There are so many things I want to tell you.
So many ideas about this place we call space
and this planet that we inhabit,
so many dumb ideas and so many real feelings
and bad ideas that are going to hurt me.
You're gone now, so I mostly bottle it up
and age it like fine wine.
Maybe one day we'll open it together.
Hope is a strange thing.
You're gone.
I need to move on.
Like that smoker, I can't.
I'm stuck day after day,
smoke break after smoke break,
looking out at the horizon
waiting for you to come back.
I'll be okay.
Things Happen.