I won’t trust anyone.
several examples of disfigured smoke
will pass through my fingers
which reflects the changes in me;
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.
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
even the flashing light from across the room
that gathers lost punks
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.
before somebody sees us—
before they stop us
from reaching our kind of rehab,
for old habits like ours—
for old souls
©Tom Del Braco