Verbatim

There is something so romantic about cigarettes The way they hang from an artists lips As they’re leaned up against bricks One leg up they inhale and exhale toxins The fashion of quietly killing themselves But I don’t see it All I see is The rise and fall of breaths The unexpected beauty of a slow death

At what point did this pursuit of love become addiction Itching for a scratch of that pen against parchment Parched for a diction to define the idolatry of such idle demise Slow-churned thoughts surmise fantastical connections Washing away any glimpse of self preservation Self respect Self love Every time I think I’ve risen in the throes of blissful romance I find myself falling prey to foolery even Tom would not condone

My heart aches like a splinter buried deeply in the soil of my flesh Dirty from your touch Still lush from your kiss Now parched from the drought you left