A Stick of Cigarette

Why do we always insist on waiting?

I stand under a lamp post,

Waiting for you to show up.

Wearing this old, worn-out jacket,

Trying to fight the breeze.

The freezing breeze,

That pierces through this jacket.

Holding,

Flicking,

A stick of cigarette.

I kept waiting.

Wishing,

That a silhouette of you,

Will be seen.

I played with the flame,

From my lighter,

Started by butane.

I lit this stick of cigarette-

-and puffed smoke all around.

Like fog,

Resting on the humid air.

I waited for you,

And waited...

And waited...

I finished the stick,

And threw it away.

And still I waited, 

For you to show up.

Holding,

Flicking,

Another stick of cigarette.

Author's Note

Pretty amateur, seeing as I didn't beat around the bush with what I wanted to say. But this poem holds sentimental value to me because it was one of my first.:)

Reviews

[rachielle]

Reading this poem, it is apparent how much you've grown in both being a writer and being a person. For one, this poem speaks of the naivety and innocence of a young lover, waiting and hoping for his dearest to arrive. I can see a young man being consumed by both his cigarette and the cold weather. Even if you say this poem is amateur, your gift of writing is still apparent here. You have been able to let the people see and feel the state you were in. Great job.:)