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Saturday, November 02, 2002
Ripped from the pages of my journal (Friday, September 6, 2002):
Burnt Lip
you're not here
no one in particular
but my lip still burns where you should have kissed me
burnt lip
blackened fingertip
ash on my white tee shirt
moon and stars
the red tip of this cigar
and the dimming light behind my eyes
lying on cold concrete in the driveway
blowing swisher sweet smoke at the stars
this is the third cigar i've smoked in a row
given up as a burnt offering
to the god of lonely hearts
dark and cold
this lonely place is getting as old
and stale as the taste in my mouth
wishing you were here
wishing i was anywhere but
wishing wishes counted for something
| Mr. McBastard | 7:36 PM | | |
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