This is not working.
Playing the other role,
hoping for something benign,
I asked what this was.

You threw your cigarette.

Landing with orange ash slowly rising
into the early autumn air,
as you dropped from the cement
wall and walked away forever.

The last drag taken slowly
the cigarette fading
beneath the black sky
free of clouds and moon.

The last puff of smoke
masks the face of an unknown
man desiring anonymity
as he watches from a distance.

He cannot bring himself to
emerge from the shadows
as the pain courses through
his body and his limbs will not move.

He tries to ask a question
to nothing in particular
but his lips will not move
his voice has no voice.

He can only watch as
he falls into the river.

Deep black eyes partially hidden by disheveled
hair draped across petite shoulders beneath black leather jacket.

Leaning against a chain link fence, the face gives nothing away
no indication, no hint of the inner struggle.

Each image one piece of some story,
each word formed into sentences into paragraphs.

Arms at each side, long fingers twitch
missing the cigarette and rising smoke.

The butterfly casts an erratic pattern over
the pebbles, cigarette butts and browned grass.

Anxious, patience waning as the photographer
snaps a few more, the candid desire becoming more posed and staged.