They say the black rose has the fewest thorns.
The truth is, she wears them on the inside.

Do you remember the nights? Back when we would chase the shooting stars under a canvas sky stained black. Nights we held so dear, prancing in the twilight.
                              Those nights led to coffee-shop mornings. Mornings when the "House Blend" was the only thing keeping our eyes open. Mornings that we spent holding each other tight, watching the sun climb in the meridian.
                               I thought those days would last forever, but here I am, kissing this cigarette. Wishing on those same stars that we used to chase.