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nolan foster Dec 2013
The steam on out breath
Mixes with the smoke from our lungs.
Our cigarettes burn,
Whispering through the crispness.
Frozen air
Bites our fingers tips.

You look so pretty with your hair pulled back

We are present,
Desperate to forget.
Why are stars so intriguing?
Maybe because we can sympathize,
They burn through the blackness.

— The End —