You wear shyness like a balaclava
At least we still see those eyes,
And all their infernal nirvana,
As they study the room clockwise.

Like a mental gymnasium,
You exercise my patience,
As I fill in the silence like
The staic, station to station.

Burning my fingers again,
It's just me and the ashtray,
Something of a Charlemagne,
Or least it's just feels that way.

A future full of plans defers
When you latch the door,
A completed mess stands
Disappointed in a downpour.

-Jamie F. Nugent