S M O K E

10. Paint

I had called Sam and told him to not pick me up
Ink and I had gone through half of her stash
whatever Sam or Mum said about smoking
I didn’t really care if my lungs were dying
talking to Ink made it worth while

“So why do you call me Ink?” she said as she took another drag
we were sitting on a bench that was just outside the café on her side of the road
“A few days ago you were wearing all black, even your lipstick and it made me think that you looked like an inkblot amongst the canvas of the street”

She turned to me, her eyes boring into me
with something that was unspoken between the both of us
“That was deep” she smiled slightly, “do you often think about girls as paint?”
“only when they’re worth being a part of my picture”