I tend to fall for wasted dreams.
Strangers on street corners,
passerbys too good for me.
I would like to believe,
that one day I'll be,
loved by soft eyes
and kissed with honesty.

You sink holes into my chest,
burning goodbyes into my flesh
with the ends of cigarettes;
little ashy reminders that
people are temporary.
And like the smoke that
curls from your lips,
tracing the very distance
between you and the December sky;
you escape me.