Do repost and rate:
As a resentful defiant drunkard
staggering in the sidewalk of his lucidity,
I shout out to the night, calling for answers,
you make prosaic gestures to the dark sky,
feeling insulted by the echo; our noise
eventfully extinguish itself and she,
uneasy but not surprised, looks at us
looks us that way, thinking of this as
a cough, a vice, chronic seizure, and leaves
whereas me, and you, already sunken in pain
imagine skin cracked in grey hair and again
living again this, watching her go as always and
take the decision, the same, all over the same.
