Light puffs of steam
fluoresce as though
lit internally.
The public lights
always do that
when I look up
to see the moon.
And it's cold,
but, I suppose it seems colder without a smile to warm me.
The pain of isolation
reinforces that God
definitely doesn't exist.
Or, if it does then I won't feel bad if I tell it to go **** itself.
Pain just for existing
Solitarily
is a curse enduring.
The moon reminds me
Of her
Of her lack.