Pale threads drift off your half cigarette as you raise it to puckered lips.
barely visible against the night, ghosting over your manicured nails, sharp enough to slit my throat.  
The moon like a sliver of sweet orange peel, like the Cheshire Cat's wild grin from Alice's acid trip.
Music from a band neither of us care about drifts from the club door, and my feet still tap to the unknown beat, because these days my limbs have a mind of their own.  
The January air bites at my ears and nose and seeps through the soles of my boots.  
My hand drifts to yours on its own accord, even though my mind screams don't.
When my mouth catches up, it mutters "can I *** one?"
I don't even smoke, but the burn in my throat distracts from the burn in my cheeks, and maybe it'll **** me quicker.