His eyes were clearly peeling the dead skin off of the every tree passing by,
all the greenness of the grass was falling off to keep him back,
he was clinging on his jacket as if he was to fall,
he should have leaned on his shoulders hollowed by the ghosts,
the aghast wandering was eating him from the inside,
he must have smoked it off like a man,
he must have ****** it off  like a high school boy,
that jacket was getting more red,

he was hiding the blackness of the palm into his fist,
he wasn't mature enough to slap the white guy passed by,
the jacket was only his true possession,
yet his chest is no more a secret.
at night he replaces his jacket by the brown blanket just to be restless in the sleep,
the addiction is at height,
cold is still cold,
warm is still warm,
his skin is becoming red,
the jacket, blanket, all are shrinking to disappear,
making a space to be filled by......