of sunsets beyond the window
but, dear friend, i am not that cruel, i cannot
tell you of things that might
wear down that sense of beauty you cling to.
so i fibbed. i'm sorry,
the women in the city
breathe smoke, not culture
and stamp out cigarettes, like periods,
to all their sentences.
and no, they don't wear make-up.
you undersatnd, i hope.
i could not tell you
with a straight face, so i wrote it,
gave you documentation of
my lies. i had no other choice.
the truth is, the coast hurt my soles
bitter and rejected, its clawing
wore down my stride and i
left their footsteps
like ghosts, wandering and lost.
