Black smoky tendrils curls around my flushed-pink lips as we drink french-pressed coffee to the rhythm of your vinyls,
Tobacco and disappointment stick to my fingers as I send you desperate texts in the rain between wet hair and grey skies,
Stubs of charcoal soot leave trails of long conversations and late nights with you around the messy apartment.
My life still lingers of your stale smoke; the pillow, my wool coat, my skin…
Sometimes I walk slowly past the tired workers on the street just so I can inhale in a breath more of you,
I knew it was bad for me, you were bad for me.
Clogging up my lungs with unfurling dusty clouds,
Filling my hot veins with thick sweet sticky tar.
I miss you, but I don’t smoke anymore.