Fireworks in My Teacup

f i v e

And on those sleepless nights when my numb self cannot even summon the energy to toss and turn, yours is the only face I want to see. The little smile and the crinkly eyed-laugh. I want it to drown out the sound of my own heart beating too fast and my mind whirring with thoughts I should push way back into tiny crevices in the further corners of my grey mind. And on those sleepless nights when I lie still, not knowing how to feel, I realise that your face is becoming more and more faded, that I can no longer recall every tiny detail about your once familiar face with the memories of a few too many cigarettes.

And on those sleepless nights when I try my best to figure out what emotion I am feeling, I find myself hoping you're not reaching for another cigarette again, already surrounded by empty packets of the cheapest ones you could find because they're just as good, love.

The weak smoke rings you used to blow, form clouds in the newly formed world inside my mind, one in which there's a vast endlessness of nothing in particular. And on those sleepless nights where my tears seem to have run out, I shut my eyes and scream inside because I know that my next thought is probably going to kill me even more, like most of my thoughts do, bit by bit, little fragments of memories of late nights and conversations in whispers that come to me sometimes in pieces, sometimes in much larger remnants that bury me even further under this feeling I can't quite name.