He sits there counting his cigarettes
As he kindles the smoke and flame.
A room mired by pitch-black darkness
Where even the walls recount her name;
His sickness swells with every whiff
And bit by bit the ashes fall;
The pain of a memory subdued
That sleeps within us all.
Yet past longings are fast forgotten
Outshined by summer lights
Else fondly remembered
Like stars on a starless night.
But there was not enough love
To bind them on this earth
And so it knocks on her winter heart
To join them in death, or rebirth.