The Buried Pain


I saw him smoking a puff in.
He was standing alone at a corner in the party.
And then a cloud of smoke flew out of his mouth.
Circles dissipated in air.
I walked up to him and said, 'I didn't know you smoked.'
He was somewhat taken aback by the breach in his solitary.
He extinguished the fag under his foot.
'Killing time,' he said.
'Or killing self,' I asked.
He strode without answering, hands in pocket and a dropped head.
I've witnessed him brooding in loneliness.
But with people around, he is all smiles.

When love is less, pain is more.

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