Worthless Like A Cigarette Stub

Night fades out.

I wash myself in the golden glow

And the winter mist of another "perhaps"

A splash of cold water hits my existence 

As I look into the mirror,

You look back at me with those

Black beady eyes.

Those hollow troughs screaming

The crimes on those unfinished pages,

The thoughts of times past,

The ideas that never took any palpable form.

The diaries that lay open in the dusty cardboard box, torn, plucked out of their spines, forgotten.

What have you seen? Where have you been?

Have you no shame?

Of yesterday and today, of all that I lost in your name?

Was it ever mine?!

Insensitivity is all but a crime!

Chopin playing over the speaker from the far end of my room,

Unkempt, in a disarray, toppled hither and thither,

Just like after a devastating storm.

I light a cigarette.

Take a sip of the leftover coffee from last night.

I see you again as I bring up the cup to my lips.

Those Black beady eyes looking monstrous and distant against the dark backdrop.

Ugh! What a bitter taste!

Someone was talking about sexuality yesterday.

I listened.

Quiet and quite lost in my own thoughts, I pretended to listen

After all, why did it matter?!

Of flesh and mud, Of lies and blood, of vanity and solitude, of regrets and gratitude

We all are creatures of habit.

You were a habit.

And so was your absence,

Since that night when it rained incessantly.

The night you kept your self-respect, and I kept my promise.

My room is filled with empty bottles.

Clashing and clamouring as I walk through

My hands smell of cigarettes.

My soul... of quiet desperation.

And my bedsheets smell of you.

I sleep on my faults now..

I paint with it on the canvas of my days in that room,

Of hollow years that I dream of.

I sleep on it.

I read dictionaries often.

Trying to find the exact word to describe you.

A to Z, To Z and back..

What a useless piece of commodity,

What use is English any more?

When words are scarce, how useless are essays inside my head?

Of things unsaid, of thoughts murdered, of fake faces put up through every winter mist and every leftover coffee.

Of reflections in the mirror.

I burn my lips musing about unimportant things.

It hurts a little. I stub my cigarette out on the window sill.

If you have to come back to my thoughts, like a redundant cheap tune that one just can't delete from their senses.

How worthless are words?

Oh yes! I look down at the window sill.

Worthless... Like a cigarette stub...