We both are sick.
Hope in small doses, day after day hinted by chance
reassurance of your state - this is the real overdose. Every
night going to sleep with a fake smile, hoping to cheer
myself up. Trully frustrated by all means, sick and tired
and simply tired and simple sick. The days are endless. I
count the hours and the minuts, each and every one of them
seems like an eternity. But in the evening we light a
cigarette together. Smoke covers our eyes, I guess we're
shamed. Despair rules our tired and yet almost honest
conversation. The Café is closing and the waiters are
looking nervously at the big clock on the wall, hoping we
get the hint. "Check please". We walk home, same path
everyday. A tired and almost honest hug and a promiss to
meet again tomorrow parts us for the night. Another fake
smile and Im fast to sleep. Please, don't give me no more
hope. I cannot wait forever. My logic tells me there's not
chance, but the heart has a will of his own. A deadly
overdose of hope, eventually kills. We are both sick, but
none of us ponders about youthonasia. I feel rather dumb.
You're the jem on my crown of golden routine of despair.
Hope in small doses is the real overdose.