Yet, I am still pissed at you, but I need to point
those nicotine stained fingers back at myself.
I said I wouldn’t get involved with a smoker after
quitting for I don’t know how many years, but you
were the exception-because you were you and it
was what was–I never met anybody like you and
rules tumble-down when the heart beats fast enough.

You had me watching Byron’s Home Shopping
Network trying to become the perfect mirror.
Looking for that equal, but it never was, and
the harder I learned this, the more I wanted you
the more I wrote; maybe the pick up artists were
right and Byron used his poems for peacocking.

All I know is I feel lonely and have been
through hell. This poem is probably never
meant to be read, but one of those poems
that’ll be a sacrifice, some shitty prose martyr
that’ll lead me to a greater truth and some solace.
That’s all we can hope for, that we can collect
enough dirty pebbles that add up to something.

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