His deep in thought face drowned of expression, Lay restlessly in his arms. His clothes loosely around him. His weary eyes hidden in his shadows; they died long ago. His viens running through his arms weakly cry at the surface of his skin.
The empty glass bottles lie in stillness, Dripping their last remorsful hopes.
As he glugs down another, his lips remain dry. The closed curtains on the window stay in their place. The stench of the air is stale and strong. As he flicks his lighter, with much needed strenth for his arms to bare. The Cigarette burns through him again.