She is like an indie film played backwards, just a bunch of beautiful pictures.
And her eyes roll like rizla between the italian mans fingers.
She smokes with pouted lips, as if ready to kiss her lover.
She looks the same when he pulls on her hair and glides his tongue over the skin of her neck.
And she smiles the same smile when his teeth graize her *******.
Her eyes also roll when his hands hold onto her waist and she remembers the lipstick stain she left on the end of her cigarette.
She leaves the same stain on the rim of his .... forefinger.
‘I don’t know why I like you so much.’ He whispers into her curls.
‘It’s because I remind you of hash and tobacco.’ She replies.

He is the repercussions of a broken heart.  I cannot be bothered to pick up the pieces and sew them back together and so I reach out my hand betwee the mosaic of bed sheets and graize my fingertips on the surface of his skin.
I don’t dare delve deeper.

He may not have been a poet but I could tell by the way his lips curled and his tongue danced with mine that he wasn’t far from it. And beneath his jaw I could taste the stardust that he was made of.