One day, I’ll just sit next to them on a rickety park bench, and, before taking a long drag from my cigarette, say it right to their face:
“I’m not what you think I am.”
I’ll have learned to blow smoke rings by then
and I’ll exhale out that tired, old circle; get up; and walk away, right through it — severing the once-unbroken loop into two disparate strands that twist and shrivel, before ultimately disappearing into nothing.
Dusty Bookshelves 