Sunday, February 12, 2017


sounds too few a number 
for the times over 
and the skies under 
which I have thought her most beautiful. 
i try to count them with each breath from my cigarette,
each exhale into the chilly los angeles night, 
the smoke from my lungs.
the warmth of my breath, 
like the waning of her voice
and her still fullness in my memory,
floating on and up through the branches
another drag 
another smoke
another exhale
another hope 
that still tonight, 
the countless clouds 
floating above los angeles, 
hang as reminders of just how beautiful she is, 
and remind her that i
am still counting. 

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