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.