Trying to fill the empty spaces
with coffee stained pages
and the memory of a kiss on a windy night
when you were both drunk and under your closed eyes
there was only the illusion
of a different tomorrow
where birds would sing the music of your mind
where planes would take you
to a place where the roses never die.
You  fall asleep every night picturing yourself
wearing a nice shirt and a pretty **** smile
and in your dreams
her white dress dances around your body
in the shadow of a ****** red sky.

Is it hope or is it just a lie?

Eating crumbs of happiness from the pavement
won't turn you into a pigeon,
you're still a fish
swimming in a bowl of pain
surrounded by the smoke of the cigarette left burning in the heart serving as an ashtray.

And in the end you realize
that life is just a space between hellos and goodbyes.