she inhaled happiness like a dunhill cigarette,
smoke lingering on her cherry-red lips,
eyes vibrant of her last lover's kiss.

but she could not fathom mundane affects
of short-tempered love, masked as the ordinary desire of men.

no one asked from where her dull smile and the fine, white lines on her arms originated from,
nor did anyone cared enough about the numerous bruises,
ironically aligned like
a blossoming sunset between her thighs.

she was just the briefly glowing ember
in one's snow cold and harsh december.

© fey (23/08/20)