It Took Me A While To Catch What He Said

In my hate, I have not written that word that is the angry butt of a cigerette, choking, clutched in hands to young to hold but old enough to break, at the wrinkled gaze of the snow and rain, that filled, then overflowed and drenched my heart and eyes see very little in the fog ahead. My tearing windows are trying desperately to hold their place. My chest is set. My hands are hard. They have been this way, And will be, for quite some time now.