I am driving but today the city smells
like combustion,
smog could be just so poetic.
I think about it
all, as I write these lines for you.
I am my own ink, yours
it doesn't feel the same.
As I think about you, my breath
blurs the car's window.

Fingers gliding over the cold crystal and over
me
wishing
you were here
and wishing you
would press your lips against my skin.
Whisper.