She's a wicked flower that blooms in Elysian fields
Like a crack in a glass that makes you think twice whether to drink the wine or not
She can smell like ten packs of cigarettes but yet still look so innocent
And because of that, all her imperfections makes her beautiful
She sells death in tiny packages
Whenever she hands out a light for your cancer stick
Or make eyes with you across the hallway
and in a blink you can just fall in love with her
In a peculiar way, in a somewhat hopeless way,
In a way that makes you dauntless, but also makes you so vulnerable
And all of that put together,  amounts it to be unconditional.
Because love only dies in the hands of those who had given up to see how much longer it can live.