Monday, February 24, 2014

To Worry More on Life than Death



She spent an hour staring 
at the butt of her cigarette 
because it looked like me, 
curled up on the couch 
dead or asleep. She spent 
an hour staring at a beer 
because it looked like me, 
still, cold, sweating for her. 
She spent year in grief 
and a year in pain 
and a year in anger 
and a year in denial. 
She wanted to cry. 
She wanted to fall. 
She needed to kill. 
She needed to see 
that I was exactly 
who she thought I was. 

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