I'm tired, tired, tired
Tired of knowing you.

Too close, too grotesque.
The man at the shop
Who sells eggs and milk and sugar,
And condiments
Has blue eyes and he sometimes waves.
And I go,
Every day
Hunting for cigarettes.

No Cobain would stand this,
No Hendrix would survive this.
Dipped in alcohol and ****** and *******,
I'm not.
I only have Marlboros and Bensons
When I want a five-minute break
From knowing you,
Seeing you and then,
Wanting to crush you like parchment
In my hand.

Instead I walk down the hill
Hunt around for a couple of smokes to ****.
But it's only the first one that does it
Only those first ten seconds,
Half a cigarette that sets
My blood on nicotine-laced fire.

I sometimes think you're the same.
A burnt out cigarette.
I was affected by your affections
Only in the dawn of this battle.
But now there are
More losing sides than one.

And then I walk back up
The hill climb is solitary, morose
With an empty pack of Bensons in my hand.
Then I pass him
And he smiles.
I ask for more milk and he
Fills up a carton, quietly.

One day I found a packet tucked in
Between the milk and sugar
And took it as a finale token,
The lone audience to my daily show.