He has beautiful eyes.
The kind of eyes you could get lost in. And never find your way out.
But when you get lost, you get afraid, right?
He has scars. The most magnificent kind.
It shows that he's not an empty canvas.
But what if he likes to paint on others, too?
What if loving him was always an illusion?
What if one day he slips out my fingers and I realise all he ever was, was smoke?
One moment it's there, and the next puff it's gone.
YOU ARE READING
Smoke.
PoetryAll our lives we live in an illusion. The past. The present. The future. The moments. The feelings. The love. The dreams. The desires. The pleasure. Is nothing more. Than just smoke. Existent. But non existent.
