Smiling

Moving through the transitions on a calender
bearing this weathered smile of apathy
No meaning behind these chapped lips
just grinding teeth and a tongue whom has
a taste for grandiose romance
The type of romance which carves "now & forever"
on the bark of an oak tree, no use for tattoos
because skin decays far too young and childish
Trudging along in gray mood weather
hands deep in pockets, clasping crumbled clock in sheets
Thinking of the proletarian hours spent clouded
in nicotine. Nothing to show for it but an empty mattress
and heavy lungs. Still wondering if someday a love song
will be written on vellum instead of a grease stained napkin
and performed somewhere else other than a fastfood venue
Still wondering if there is a soulmate, or even
a soul whom has a mate with smooth hands unaffected
by the rough textures of machinery
But the machinery smiles, and I smile back, weathered
and apathetic, pretending that I've lost hope in this quest
for a manila folder labeled "evidence" with contents containing
black and white photographs of a beautiful spunky face
proving the theory of the existence of souls and soulmates
Moving through the transitions. Twenty four calendars down, going on
twenty five. How many more are left?