The GlassesTHE GLASSESOn a lamp near the window, sun on the shade,No shadows to sleep, no memories to fade.The coffee cup there, still sits from that time,Red lipstick acting a print of her mime.Should've seen the whispering wit,Who stole my moon, like a smoke just lit. Just another entry in his weathered leather bound journal. He pauses as a cool bead of sweat slide from the tip of his nose plunging into the still wet blue ink. It could have been blue drops of rain disguised as spy's breaking through the cracks in the darkened nicotine stained ceiling but when he tilted his dark eyes to where the moon should have been, he sensed
Sta.sh
keep on keepin on
