Your lit cigarette ashes in the white porcelain cup on the table. Veins of smoke dances through the heavy cold air like a burned incense stick that reeks of death and indisposition. Cancerous yet calming. Clinging stubbornly to your leather jacket and your lungs. Minute frictions against your intricate finger prints and the rough texture of hundred sheets of papers compiled in a single hard cover, your favourite book.
Two straight hours. Brief breaks of inhaling a few dosages of nicotine in between. The red amber turns fiery as you suck in your cheeks. Bones under your sinful skin gets more prominent, complimenting your eyes that are getting heavier as seconds passed.
And when the crooked, shrivelled end of the 8th stick has turned completely grey, your eyes finally turned to me. "My mind gets weary and alone after exploring words on my own." And you gave up the hard spine of the book for the small of my back.
Two straight hours. Brief breaks of inhaling a few dosages of nicotine in between. The red amber turns fiery as you suck in your cheeks. Bones under your sinful skin gets more prominent, complimenting your eyes that are getting heavier as seconds passed.
And when the crooked, shrivelled end of the 8th stick has turned completely grey, your eyes finally turned to me. "My mind gets weary and alone after exploring words on my own." And you gave up the hard spine of the book for the small of my back.
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