The woman's lips are stained, lips are stained
Red from nervous blood peeling,
Dry and rusted against her
Old lips, old lips
She pulls a soft cigarette to her face
and takes a small drag
Her fingernails stained dark
For those years of viciously
inhaling, inhaling her nicotine
She laughs at her razor
worn and rusted
Like her face, her lips
She hasn't cared since she was twenty
But the moon and stars
shine on her, shine down low
With the mimic of the sad, flickering, dusty street lamp
As she sits swaddled in a blanket
cold and damp
and smiles at the time before
When she was young
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