He thinks of her from time to time
But not like before, when she was
The sun his life revolved around
And he often wonders at this, a
Fact he pretends to overlook but
Knowing anyway that she crosses
His mind perhaps a bit more than
He allows himself to believe.
You smoke too much, she would say
To him, usually at the breakfast table,
Before talk had become so cheap and
They squandered away empty words that
Eventually held no value at all, until
Silence became the main commodity
But it was her table now anyway, he
Thinks, reaching for a cigarette.
Her picture still rides his wallet, but
He seldom lets it out, and this seems
To please him, though it is a grim
Sort of pleasure, because it shames
Him as well, like a small child who
Cages a bird that he knows in his
Heart was meant to fly, yet refusing
To set it free because of its song.
He takes another pull off his smoke.