"My future ex-wife,
are you still alive?"*

The thought hit me as I was out of cigarettes one Monday morning, when I remembered that the previous night I was only able to smoke half of my last one. I had put the shorted cigarette underneath of a spring doorstop, still in plastic and uninstalled, that lay resting on the brick pillars erected on the front porch of the house. For as long as I've lived there, that doorstop had been lying on those painted bricks just waiting for a half of a cigarette to protect from the wind and snow.
The filter, on that common Monday morning, was ice on my lips, and your frostbitten love was inside of my lungs.
As it smoldered and spewed twirling blue swirls,
I sat and recollected upon you.

They speak of the moment where he whispers
Most of happening fright
In the second where the rein of his sister
Takes you by the dismal night

But through the frequent connections
No one does find the sinister
Even in broad day inspection
The idea is nothing if not frivolous

But for the hopeless victims of the daughter of Nyx
Oh how I do feel pity
Those tortured beyond the ability to be fixed
but to the world, their troubles are so bitty

To find yourself filled with the words in the light of day
Walking with the heavy burden of unseen baggage
To know there is nothing anyone can do or say
Now that is her goal