He’s been twiddling his cigarette – stained fingers for longer than you can ever even let yourself imagine – waiting on all or nothing to occur
apped it out immediately from the beginning, so we do know
Wore the requisite attire ‘n all
The Writer’s writer – all of nothing rather
To simply breathe is to settle ten such tantalised words atop that awaiting page per time – meticulous, age – old rage nestled fair yearningly within
Can only ever cross to twist said fingers and pray
That they shall one day take it upon themselves to be so endearingly kind as to grasp another such ravenous eye

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