The Third Stop Sign

Whenever I drive by the the third stop sign on my way home,

I think of the fear that lived in my fingers

As I flicked my cigarette bud out the window,

wondering if my mom would recognize it was mine

Solely by the red lip stain I had left planted on it.


Then I think of the way I always loved to look at the trees, 

When you sped past the third stop sign, 

And I counted the numbers of times you'd smile, 

Thinking that happiness is too often under apprieciated

Especially when it lives on your lips.


But your smile starts reminding me of all the things I've lost, 

I'm still trying to find them like pieces of glass,

But they are scattered through the lives of my past,

Mocking me with the way they can sometimes shine

Happily even though the break me.


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