Punk

I usually don’t write at work. When I was terribly busy I took a
breather leaning back to my chair and took the pen and wrote this. To
be honest with you there is no real girl I know with these qualities.
It just came to me. May be the descriptions I’ve given resemble couple
of girls I’ve seen and heard about.

Punk.

Quitting smoking was not an easy task,
But my last cigarette I have thrown away,
To give my best to the next Date of mine.

Weeks passed by with me scatterbrained,
But not a drag of smoke I took,
And held on to the promise I made,
To that girl only my imaginations seen,
The withdrawing nicotine brought cravings,
The chaotic mind in eagerness swayed,
The first one I meet I will ask, I decided,
And with no thought in mind into the street, I walked.

The first lucky one was by the mall wall,
Pierced around the eye and lips,
Golden brown hair pointing up and down,
Low waist shot jeans with embedded metals,
Shows the silver ring in glitter on her bellybutton,  
The tattoo on her upper arm speaks,
About her unbelief in any God,
Pointed nose and ears pointed at every movement of mine
Walking towards her, I met a friend of mine,
After formal queries my friend left with a kiss on the cheek,
Then I went to the punk with a smile that said more than ‘Hi’,  
“Who is she?” asked the punk in a perplexed tone,
“A friend” was my reply in politeness,  
“Who am I?” The punk again asked philosophically,
Through an ironical laugh I said,
“If you were old enough and I was young enough,
I would’ve given a ring that need no piercing to wear”,
“Not young enough and not old enough” with a smile she said,
And crossed the street waving her hand at me.

From the nearby ashtray I picked
A still burning cigarette butt,
And walked away taking a long missed drag.