4:58.
Moon beams.
2 degrees below that line.
Smoke filled the air, almost freezing
In the night air.
Hands shaking, eyes bleeding.
Why?
Avoidance, perhaps? Or solitude of the heart?
Maybe just a craving that can't be fixed by sleep
Or idle dreams.
A habit that never dies.
And I'm not talking about the smoking.

A connection found, and subsequently lost.
The perfection protection,
For that **** young fowl.
Forgotten. Forgiven. Forsaken.
What seemed like of the utmost importance,
Died,
With that night.
Discarded like a bad dream, regarded with nothing,
Not even gratitude.
Selfish?
Maybe.

But we were arm in arm. Striding through the dark.
Half in silence. Half in laughter.
Now he CARVES her heart
With silver pointed adjectives and accusations.