You bring it once again to your eager lips. Close your mouth around the slightly damp paper rim, and suck. Taking it all in, feeling the assault on your weathered throat. Taste it in your own breath. A blend of saliva and poison. Bittersweet; like how you would describe a sip of unsweetened tea. Feel it curl into your lungs and know that it taints.
Expel it slowly. Watch how it resembles an apparition made of tendrils unfurling and dancing against the backdrop of a still night framed in glass. It slips out from the window which was kept ajar, along with a thinner stream of white spiraling out from the stick held in between the V of your fingers. Instinctively, you move your hand forward to tap off the build up of ash on the sill; the trail follows like a seasoned smoker’s signature cursive.
-
People are like cigarettes, you say. Made to be exhausted, burnt out. Deserved to have life sucked out of them.
“What use is a fag which has burnt down to its filter?”
-
I watch you from the side. A duffel bag lay at your feet, you stare out into the black. Flicking the butt out of the window when you were through with it, you stand there with arms akimbo and sigh, contemplating. I chew on my lip, waiting for your next move.
And what do you do? You light up yet another one.
Unknown Purring
- 16 years, 10 months, 13 days ago
