And now for something completely different...
LOOKING AT THE VIEW
It's a funny thing, but
now I can't look out of
my window without
thinking of you looking
at the view whilst smoking
a cigarette.
Kneeling on the end
of my bed, elbows on
windowsill, tranquil
and still - pert bottom
pointing at the ceiling.
What were you thinking,
what were you feeling
as you smoked your
cigarette?
It's been a while, but I
still haven't emptied the
ashray - the filter lies
there yet, surrounded
by ash - expired fire - a
funeral pyre of sorts
which reminds me of you
looking at the view
from my window.
You graced my room,
my bed, my life, all too
briefly - the memory, like
a knife, still cuts deep,
haunts my sleep and, night
and day, fills me with joy
and sadness at the same
time. Joy for what was -
and sadness for what
could have been
(but wasn't).
(Hold off, there's more in a moment - run out of space.)
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