Fitom

I put out my cigarette.
I walked inside the house that I'll never call home again.
I poured my cold coffee down the drain.
I shook my head and wrote a stupid poem about it all,
A poem that will last and that belongs where it lies
Yet is filled with things nobody will ever know or understand.
I end it, chuckle at the ironies, and go to bed
Practicing being alone and missing something
By being alone and missing something.