We drove up through the fog on Jackson Mountain, the music carried the silence with a melodic tune that made it almost seem sweet; it was quiet and loud at the same time. "You want a cigarette?" he asks, interrupting the flow of thought through my stormy mind. I silently take the cigarette from him and put it in my mouth, the cigarette filter touching my lips when I wish it were him instead. I pull out my lighter, a blue and yellow flame assistant making my lungs black. He could never really read my handwriting, and he could never really make up his mind. He never read my journals and he hardly ever touched my face. He slept till 4 in the afternoon and threw the pillows over his head if he was disturbed. He hasn't traveled and he doesn't like tattoos. Him. That sounded so sweet just hours before now ****** my tongue to bleed. my love has turned to resentment and everything he does now has lost its glow, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes don't shout laughter anymore, his curly hair is just a mess now, and his eyes once a beautiful sky blue are just a dusty old ball kicked around in bare feet... But still here I am with you driving through the fog on Jackson Mountain.

I once was in love with a boy who smoked cigarettes, he had his own car and two jobs, and his hair was almost always a mess. He didn't really like breakfast and he over drank all the time but said he was fine. His diet was mostly fast food, I was sure beer and fry grease ran through his veins. He never understood why I cried and never understood why I kissed him so much.

"We'll just be friends" you said hours ago and I agreed, and although that line was banging on the inside of my head, I ignored it and kissed you harder. I loved the look in your eyes when you said "you can be doing this or we could be doing something else" and I just followed you back to the room where your hands engulfed me and your lips brought back these all too familiar feelings. After you woke up you grabbed me and pulled me towards you- I couldn't help but smile, I was so happy, ******* you on this cloudy Sunday morning made me feel whole and I haven't felt like that in so long. I hate the fact I let you touch me, but **** it I couldn't help it.

in a room
with a dimly lit bedroom lamp
my eyesight groped
on an object between other objects
Your face is clearly visible in a black frame
as if smiling at me
how long should I look at you unrealistically?
there is a sack of longing that I want to share
or it's fine if you want to add your longing too in it.