the book we made wasn't a simple story where we started with a simple hi and a hello what's your name, ours started with me meeting you on a corner of a damned circle, asking for a lit; instead, you gave my cigarette a kiss and it did flare-up, but it wasn't the only thing that did that night. suddenly, the purpose of my life that was only to live because i am alive changed, the inevitable rotating of the earth stopped as the untold and sudden touches of your lips gradually tainted my bare skin as it traveled from place to place, leaving behind scars that even the thickest fabrics would never be able to hide. underneath the sheets of the moonlight we hid, with hopes of revitalizing our unbeating hearts through touches of each other's unwavering love. pressed bodies became the only way to get through the cold breeze of autumn; and out of all the ways i learned how to bring the dead back to life, ours is my favorite.
the book we made that started by a lit of a cigarette, ended by a lit of a cigarette as i woke up alone in the bed that reeks the sweat of two people. the end.
