The smell of a cigarette
The glow of the ashes
The flick of such dust
Fluttering down
You saw me standing
still as a tree
standing beneath the
parking lot's lamp.
Panting.
Sobbing.
Illuminated by gold.
You saw the scar.
My scar.
How did it get there?
I see you thinking.
But I hate that.
"You know it's impolite to stare."