The day expires away like ashes in the
wind small lives extinguished by breath or
by time, I count the minutes each like a
stained gem clutching the weight of their
smoke-riddled rhyme.

What is survival but a bruise grown old
a wound dressed in new names an open
book?I dream of thirst that deserts can not
hold of hands cradling stillness or the last
look.

How many nights have I lied to myself
saying tomorrow will...