moonlit streets
and empty promises
falling from
broken bottles
and cigarette smoke

eyes that are
rimmed with
too many
sleepless nights
close

as the lips below
share the smoke
that brought them
here

not caring
who will be blamed
in the morning

My first love was like my first whiff of a cigarette --
Strong. Overwhelming. Suffocating.
(It was a stick of Marlboro Red if anyone's asking)

Was it too much for someone
who's never smoked or loved in their entire life?
Perhaps. Yet, there I was -- willing to fall forward,
into the abyss of the novelty of it all.

And I did.
Fall -- with the click of the lighter.
Falling -- with each inhale.
Fallen -- with each exhale.

It's been days, weeks, months, years.
I've had lighter cigarettes, flavored love,
and I still get overwhelmed and choke
and tear up even at the first whiff.

But I guess, that's where the charm is.
Not with the ashes that fall to my feet,
but the delicate pressure of lips,
the heat it holds hands with.

The beauty lies in going through the motions.

i stay in the past
out of hatred for the present
and fear of the future
inside my mother's cocoon
as my father works day to day
tirelessly, puffing smoke out of chapped lips
and the cigarette boxes pile the hallways
i live in a dream inside my head
where i paint my walls a different shade each day
and flowers bloom between the cold metal frame of my bed
the cracks in the ceiling
and the dusty gaps in my window
as if i had not heard my sister cry in the night
or nights
and my brother slams the door from outside
yes,
i'd rather stay in the past.

Downtown’s sodium orange
penetrates the snow fog around us,
and the xenon sign outside this club
stains your teeth an electric blue.

There are bloodshot eyes behind puffs
of smoke as you **** on a cigarette.

Our feet ***** the salt and butts
under the slush as snow coats our
coats and your short, curly hair.

Your lips lap the tip for mere seconds
at a time, never leaving your lungs
full for long. I watch your chest rise
and fall with each burning breath
and imagine that coat curling away
and falling like ash. But I don’t smoke
and loathe the smell that lingers
betwixt my fingers.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

her tears fell to the floor
like rose petals,
covering the salty earth
with reddish hues.

she opened her mouth to scream,
but the words
refused to leave her burning lips.

she took another drag of her poison,
letting it fill the gaps of her soul,
drowning her lungs
in the harsh chemicals of the world.

she exhaled all the worries and fears
she’d carried with her that day,
hoping tomorrow would be better.

Why do I bother with the anticipation of love (lust).

No escaping the pain. One way or the other.
Roulette at its finest.

The love for family burns holes in my heart.
Romantic love burns like cigarettes on the flesh.
Searing the skin right before your eyes.

Sometimes you can smell your smoldering ignited flesh.

Other times in sneaks up behind and the ******* leaves you paralyzed.

Insidiously leaving venom in your veins.
The pain may never disipate.

Empty streets, flickering lights
Not a soul in sight in the darkness of the night.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait,
No flirty couples, no late-night deadlines.

The streets are devoid of life,
And yet you can't say it's dead.

People are living, breathing, sleeping,
under different roofs, in different rooms,
in varying states of ecstacy and misery and outright boredom.
In endless creativity and stuttering breaths,
witness the arousal and the ebb and flow of time
without so much as a second thought
to anyone outside the realm of safety and peace
within the four corners of their reality.

With each inhale, there is life.
Why can't we say that each exhale brings death?

For what is death if not simply as the absence of life?
When the glimmer in his eyes fades, when the smile you long for
doesn't appear, when you reach for his hand and find nothing but air--

Life.
It's empty.
Life.
It's meaningless.

I don't feel alive without you.
Yet I don't feel like I'm dead, either.

And so here I am, in a weird limbo that is just pain, pain, pain--
The pain of each inhale not bringing me what life is supposed to be
as described in picturesque scenes from tiny little windows.
The disappointment of every exhale that brings no end to this emptiness, this chasm of nothing in my chest that you once filled.

Empty streets, like veins that pump blood that refuse to sing.
Flickering lights, from my lighter that spouses one last, dying flame.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait.
No love, no adrenaline.
Nothing.

I remember,

I remember a time that thinking of you didn't make me feel like dying

Where my world was full of dandelions and cigarette smoke

Of car rides with you
listening to 'our song' but now
our song makes me sick to my stomach

Ever since saying I love you
meant goodbye

And now, I hate dandelions

we are sitting on the outside corridor
and we listening to indie music at 3 am
i like these kind of nights
it is so peaceful
budapest is in front of our feet
it looks like a jewelry box
i fell in love with the city
and you at the same time
i can see the ferris wheel from here
where you kissed me first
your kiss was like mint and cigarette
still a perfect combination
budapest and you