7-12-12

cold for a july night.
hands cupped like a begging addict
trying to savor the heat of the flame
that spreads to the filter of the cigarette

now thats two wasted.

with all the times I've spent
sitting and debating if
this life is worth slitting my wrists
it's a miracle I'm still alive.

it's only seventeen julys
but if you ask me,
it's more like seventeen million.

my feet are cold.
in all senses including proverbial.