little nothings || a.b.

.p.r.e.v.i.e.w.

His hands carried the weight of his life with him. Proof of this was held in the scars and calluses that were spread across them. Black swirls of ink trailed along his wrists and knuckles. His fingers were long and slender, of those of an artist. Despite their appearance, they moved delicately and precisely. They were strong enough to open a jar, but gentle enough enough to touch a lover's cheek. His hands were an extension of his mind, making works of art with every movement of his pen. Cuts and scratches covered each knuckle with dark red slashes. His nails were bitten down, perhaps from worry or possibly even habit.  His wrists were thin yet masculine, blue veins were faintly seen through his fair skin. Differently from the texture of the entirety of his hands, his fingertips were smooth, delicate, ticklish even. Between two fingers he held a long cigarette with wisps of grey smoke pooling around it. He brought the object up to his plump, moist lips and released a flowing cloud of ash colored , toxic-smelling fumes. 

"Your lips tasted like nicotine, and I got addicted."

//e//