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.

END

“Her”