Frozen

Of all the things that stay with us, a broken pencil;

the smell of the fog at three a.m
when you were waiting

for the bus on the street corner

a slight whimper
when you tied the shoe lace for one last time

what is that really stays beyond?

the smell of the toasted coffee
grows on and swallows you;

you are reminded of the innocent smile
behind the scorn on the face

the only face you ever knew
and the sweetest kiss you never had.