The smell of a cigarette
The glow of the ashes
The flick of such dust
Fluttering down
You saw me standing
still as a tree
standing beneath the
parking lot's lamp.
Panting.
Sobbing.
Illuminated by gold.
You saw the scar.
My scar.
How did it get there?
I see you thinking.
But I hate that.
"You know it's impolite to stare."

And when she left,
I kept her lucky bamboo alive,
and wished that the leaves
will speak to me in her voice

But the leaves has grown quiet,
and turned into my favorite color

Does that mean our love has withered,
or have I been speaking with the dead?

Simmering on a Sunday,
anecdotal evidence on tap.

Greens merge with orange
hues, victories are served.

Detonated mystery - hiding
inside, these walls may fall.

One more deal upon this table,
wishing for a white flag.