A silly sad soldier who drinks stolen rum
And tastes poetry on his tongue
Stumbles through lost and locked buildings
Mercantile and meaningless as him
He counted up the nights straight he had stopped in this town
The faded edge-burned nights that trailed off into his dreams about women
Some he’d met and some he would after death
Both were nicer in the haunted corridors of his mind though
And he had gotten used to that
One night inside a dank room fraught with electric worries he could only half identify
It was a morning never mind just enough light provided to show
That he had reached to stroke the face of a new love
The thought being the most pleasing he had in many years
The type that to remember gets you misty eyed but you only know its cuz you thought about so much

You sort of wanted to cry to it
He probably would later on from a barely related cause

But that thought…
Her skin felt rough like cotton sheets as his hand pulled away from his pillow
She smelled like his bed
Because she was
And he probably said nothing, didn’t even grunt
Because no one was watching