Old habits

I won’t trust anyone.
several examples of disfigured smoke
will pass through my fingers
which reflects the changes in me;
dishonest promises.
luckily, you’re here.
my thoughts are stories made of poetry
and you answer them as you know’em all,
as you know me
and you’re finding me whenever
I get lost in them—
only you amongst everyone
and no one else.
I’ve decided:
tonight I’ll trust only you.
we remain cocooned,
telepathically linked through our feet
while I’m killing myself with cigarettes,
because I have no will,
because I don’t know any better
in thinking.
even the flashing light from across the room
that gathers lost punks
young and
and burns them like moths and flies,
is sheepishly leaving questions, like
shadows on our faces:
what are we doing here?
this is not our kind of place.
let’s wander away—
where understanding has its meaning,
out of this vicious circle.
let’s disappear
before somebody sees us—
let’s disappear
before they stop us
from trying—
from reaching our kind of rehab,
for old habits like ours—

for old souls
like us.

©Tom Del Braco

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