Your hands are cigarette umbrellas
Protecting nicotine from rain
The tears you shed are not of loss or despair
But of meek acceptance
of your cognitive suicide.
You reside in a cosmic tomb of doubt
There are circular burns in neat rows on your arm
A polka dot of self inflicted pain
and from the same cigarette
That your hands are umbrellas for.
Your hands are cigarette umbrellas
Where mine are arbiters of pleasure
not of sexual pleasure
more a general satisfaction of touch.
You are the lonely private on the barracks
Encased in his own company
And a welcome partner is his own gloom
I am not.
I’m perceived confidence in the pressure of a general hatred
of most people
and a twisted superiority complex
You are perceived insecurity in the presence of an acknowledgment
of the banality of your existence
And we cross over more than you think.
Your hands are still cigarette umbrellas
But now
They protect my nicotine from rain.