The Musings of a Wash-Up
My laden desk filled by the spilling
Of lipstick gritted cigarette butts
From my ashtray. Piles of grey
Gathering and merging with the
Dust around my typewriter.
A single golden earring, sits
By my now empty hand as I
Extinguish another finished ***.
And memories rot, around the
Unused airline ticket, when I
Wasted my opportunity to go
After the only one who had ever
Given me the ability to write.
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