April of last year I counted in the cigarettes I watched try to pour the light back into your eyes.

The parallel of your embers against the dulled papers of mine,
both poignant with the bitterness emanating from our little metaphors.

We never promised to be careful and no strings attached makes the tying threads easy to find.

The words I never said left paper cuts on my tongue,
replacing where your lips used to be.

It's lucky that my thoughts move too fast for your feel to follow me.

Even luckier still that the only thing left is a tattoo of that cigarette where your mouth used to be.