Bittersweet

• Heroin

Buildings tall; the smell of coffee walks around each corner.

People scream inside their cars and the rain can not wash this madness away.

She walks around dressed in brown, like an acorn without its shell. Her breath is warm and soft, her hands purple and veiny underneath a pair of gloves with ripped edges.

Do the edges really matter, if it still warms you?

She opened the door with a carnal push and if it wasn't for all the layers of wool on her skin, I believe everyone would be staring at the arch in her back.

In silence, she sat under the darkest light and smiled at the waitress, with that kind of smile you can only see in heroes.

There must be some kind of courage into the act of asking for black coffee when the night is ending or maybe, it is not ending for her.

I mean,

When a woman like that opens a book in its first page, you know she does not believe in time.

What a rebellious act, to read in eras like this.

Giving sip, her eyes meet someone else's,

In the city, how hard can it be to be heard?

Sometimes, all it takes is to fall in love with ripped edges.

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Hey beans,

Sorry I skipped one or two days of uploading but I feel like doing it every day makes me upload poetry that I don't really like. 

Because you know, I do write every day but I don't write things I love every day so idk.

Thank you so much to everyone who is supporting me, I love all of you beans.