the waiting turns phones into dirt, or smears
the loneliness of no words, but hears
every empty night and the singing stars
who lean, sipping gins in hectic bars
and they fall, not caught by sympathy
not seen by empathy
just the passing eyes in rain lines while they choke
why would they assume such a joke
does the misty air condense
evidence for complacency and pretence
or might the spinning stop
the jaw drop
the waiting end
dear friend
©2008 Hey Hey
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