The Wind

The aesthetic implications of smoking cigarettes

You gave me your scalf when i said i was cold and im sorry i didnt give it back.
But it smells like you.
Like when you hug me and i tuck my chin into your neck and you wisper that you missed me.

Hey, i missed you too.

You always wrote better poems than me.
Do i resent you that? Im not sure
Maybe i resented your eyes and your hair and your smile and the boys that clambered at your door. Maybe i resented the things that made me think i loved you.
But i dont anymore.

Becuase i shouldnt have admired your brokeness and i should have known that me thinking you were better than me doesnt equate to you thinking that too.
Im so happy i saw you again. And it didnt make me heart burn this time. Even when you mused that we would make the cutest couple if... if... if...

Which i guess means i dont have a crush on you anymore.

We sat in a sunlit park and drank malibu rum from the bottle at three in the afternoon on a sunday as you smoked your cigarette and i drank coffee (it was always just the chemical balance of our brains). You read me your poems and i think i almost cried when i told you i was still scared of being alive.

And we wished to god we had never tried to tare ourselves apart. Because tired eyes and desperate words look so fucking pretty in lowbudget indie films about The Youth but all there is, is dirt and blood and tearstains and no amount of Romantic sensibility will stop you feeling exhausted and alone and broken and worthless and fucking fucking terrified.

But your scalf still smells of you. Even if you think that smell is just smoke and bitterness. I swear to god it smells of home.