I go outside to sit on the steps,
and fumble in my pocket for cigarettes.
I flip the top and start thinking
about her, and my great regrets.

I hate thinking so I begin to look
through my pockets for my matchbook
and my heart starts sinking
as I find the torch I used to use to cook.

It was my utmost favorite flame,
yet whom other than myself is to blame?
We were in love while drinking,
yet when we burned it was always the same.

The same days and,
the same ways;
the same daze and
the same, weighs
heavily
on my heart,
in my brain.

She loved me, yet I was unsure
of whether or not to endure
my ego shrinking,
and becoming impure.