She sits in silence, alone beneath a waxing moon,
Smoking her cigarette, and sinking deeper into her mind.
She has everything she needs to build a nice cacoon,
Staring at the darkness though tear stained eyes.
It comes as no suprise.
She's the mistress of misfortune.
Thought I saw her crack a smile in the midst of all her weeping
As if the pain provides an insight the rest of us could never understand.
She write her wisdom in the sand.
She knows the tide will come in and wash it all away,
But she writes the words any way,
And the words are writing her:
Nothing costs as much as love except not to love at all.
