If a knock came at the door,
selling finest whiskey, or, better,
yet, finest cigars, I would buy them.
All. Then.
Those. I suppose, in defiance,
of your shortsightedness.
I cannot tell you, tonight, this tonight,
this rainsome, lonely night,
how it feels, to spend such stretches
alone, because you know such solitude
only in adventure. Because you successfully
avoid this mute prolong. Perhaps you miss out,
perhaps I permit myself agony.
Perhaps, you are the kind to defy my wisdom.
Perhaps, I am the kind to throw it away.
Rain.
