the night shivers against
the cold of the weather;
your voice whispers
against the sleeves
of the ripped sweater.
the smell of cigarettes
and gasoline sting
the silhouettes
dancing under the
river.
your smile is crooked,
hair is a mess on your
head, yet your fingers
drum to the beat
of living forever.
under the moon, you
smile, with the cigarette
hanging by your tongue,
singing the lonely song
of beauty.
because everything has
beauty but not everyone
sees it; it's like screaming
yet no one can hear.
for their lips are closed,
and they only open when
what they say is more
beautiful than silence
and as we sat in silence,
smoking cigarettes at
five in the morning,
we still believed that
after everything, the
world is still a
