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Smoke

What are you thinking,
pistol to your head,
finger on the trigger,
wishing you were dead?
Thinking of her smile,
the one reserved for you,
and how you always felt,
it could only be you two?
Thinking of her laugh,
when you told a funny joke,
how people always knew,
you were her only bloke?
Thinking of you hands,
firmly interwined,
how nothing could divide you,
but the passage of time?
Before you pull that trigger,
take a look to your side,
here I am you'll see,
my arms opened wide.
Think of those who care,
there are so many you know,
who'd hate to see you vanish,
in a cloud of pistol smoke.

-Jon Graby ©1999

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