It has long been time to say goodnight, The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence. But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds. And so the cigarette still burns. On. And om. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on. Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it." And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest. Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice. Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you. Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.