The happiest I've ever been was when my hair was blowing in the warm summer breeze, listening to your calming words while looking up at the night sky, counting the stars. Almost as many as the number of chances I've given you to prove yourself to me, prove that you truly do love me the way you wrote in your little black book of secrets.
Now all I have left is the burning cigarette in my hand, tears in my eyes, and the condescending misunderstanding uncomprehending people around me that mistake my poetry for an escape rather than the way my life is right now.