Four drawers open.
Two remain shut.
A bottle on top nearly empty.
A thirsty man to drink a plenty.
Yet through eyes unknown
To you fuck or to I.
A faulty breath to breathe.
Another question of why?
To why you list another day?
To why you feel damned dismay?
A quaint matchbox that holds a heart.
Of billowing eerie.
Of fragmented parts.
