She shaved her head,
the kind
that rebels do
in the past.
She lit a cigarette,
and blew off
tiny clouds of smoke
that she believed
could conceal
her thoughts
privately.

The thoughts
that deprives her of her sleep.

She drank
liquors of despair
of what she described
of her first taste of tequilla
-bittersweet.

Yet
she managed to look up
, raised her camera.
She pointed,
aimed and shoot
for that moon
hanging in the sky.
The moon that witnessed
most of her sorrowful nights,
the moon
who saw every tear drops
that seem to reflect
a little sparkle
with the stars light.

She picked up some debris
of the shattered mirror
under the lamp post,
and studied her face.

Her stare went blank,
it doesn't anymore show
thousands of stories
of resentments,
of remorse
and trepidation
but
fear and hopelessness.

She's gone numb and cold.

And with a sigh,
she let out the words
slowly,
"My heart has cried a story that a writer couldn't even tell"

Burning tobacco has an unreal fragrance of tobacco leafs
maybe I'm addicted to her like cigarettes
or I'm in grief
in brief every night I smoke
to cut down my life by Six minutes
and rest in peace with your grave !