Eight Ball, Corner Pocket. Poem by Wes Thompson

you're supposed to learn to suffer
before you grasp the concept, trust
pressed between two pairs of lips
like sparks waiting to combust
but I've been thinking of the smiles
that I missed
all the hopeless hope
that I gave up for this
when imagination wanders
and in darkness, laughs your laugh
it seems to real for me
not to cry on your behalf
but if you can also see
him where we've yet to grow
my words will not quite reach
through trust not quite bestowed