Mediocre Poetry

Do not ask me where the curtains went;
I drew them for you
over my windows.

Do not ask me where the candles went;
I blew them out for you;
darkness wouldn’t reveal our deeds.

Do not ask me where the papers went;
I wrote poems on them for you,
your presence steals the words away from my throat.

Do not ask me where the cigarettes went;
I smoked them all
while waiting for you.

Now that you are here,
let us not waste any more time;
for the sun will peek through the horizon soon,
and my landlord will come asking for rent.

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