In hatred,
I to myself
that this other, others not know,
that this be for the ones I do
if they – enough of me
for me to share
desperation –
how far I smoke down my last cigarette.

And I want it so much to say
to you and all,
but that you I don't know,
and because I would
and that itd mean less.

When faced with unfamiliar,
I become like least revealed that they may see,
not caring but that in this, they be,
not minding that I my nose.

Then within each day and every night,
it is what I will do:
To live in romantic fantasy,
that which can never be,
with you,
a figment of my longing for perfection.