She smokes a cigarette – between thin fingers, holding lightly to salvation, she inhales.
And she stares not at you but of nothing, but of air.

She sits there with eyes that yearn to kiss the stranger that passes by, and for someone to miss her–

She is tired of black mascara and desperation and tears on the shoulders of men who ease her just to fuck her and knew this, but didn’t care. Because men to her were only warm bodies to hide in but never confide in and could never keep beside her.

There, not for comfort or for rest, she sat for nothing, which suggests, she was bored. But she wasn’t bored; it was the air that kept her there.

Between her lips flows smoke. She never really spoke, but knew it all to be a hoax and the world was really a sick joke played by the TV who conquered reason, but she – she would not be fooled and hid from all the lies that are so cleverly disguised in the ignorance of your eyes.