Jet black nights with a tinge of hope,
My skin has grown to adapt to lovelessness,
This hope is but my bread and water,
Lovelessness is the nature of my nights.
Wimpy men walk through the black of my nights.
Their cigars burning through the black fabric.

The smell of cigars is a comforting midnight snack,
I remember when you had your midnight snack with mine,
We sat in silence with your hands in mine,
The cold of your reality broke through our silence,
And out there, I am again, in the cold of the night,
These jet black nights with a tinge of hope.