I sit in a café' writing until all I want is to go out and smoke. So I go out to smoke, but its bitterly cold. My hand trembles as I open the pack. I wish I wore a warmer coat. I idly watch all the passerby.
I'm only half way through my cigarette but I drop it, run back in the café' , wondering if anyone notices how I race back to join myself at the table. Do they think I'm crazy? I don't care.
I have to write these words down before they float away from me.
I start to wonder if these thoughts are even mine?
Because if they are, why are they always leaving?
why is it so hard, to hold on to them?
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