Mar 6, 2013
1
He sat outside, inhaling smoke and exhaling empty promises of future encounters. Perhaps he believed, earnestly, the vows for next time that he was making, or perhaps it was an idea of a way to be that he was adhering to. Either way, the lack of fruition of such promises came as no surprise. Words are sometimes just empty noises, and they blow away as easily as smoke.
Now all that remains is a series of isolated moments, encapsulated in time, a notch on a bedpost and a fistful of disremembered intentions surrounded by spent cigarette butts.
