Your toes curl in ecstacy
and I can still smell you
on my skin.
I shiver with th cold
and you light a cigarete,
hand it to me,
roll another.
Your hair flicks into your eyes;
your impatient click of the tounge
negates your easy smile.
So I fix you a drink,
a double for good measure
(a real good measure),
and you hum along
to the song on the stereo.
Your beauty is your tragedy,
your tragedy is your beauty
and I feel your pain
at your wasted opportunities.
You try to brush away
your disappointment,
but you are your own worst enemy,
your harshest critic,
accountable only to yourself
wishing you were better...
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