The Walk.

I know when you walk away.

I see you walk out, shoulders straight, head held high
Your pride walking two steps behind

We have not talked in a while.
It will all work out though
In the end, the little rings of smoke
That emanates from the end of that lit cigarette,
And two fingers twining around each other
In a desperate attempt to hold on to the moment

But then comes the moment
When skin is redundant

There is a long lane here
When I hear your footsteps
I look up
And see the face that is more familiar,
And dearer to me
Than myself

And I know that
You haven't returned to me.

No, you have simply come home.