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
Did you know most streetlights are high pressured sodium lamps?
And yes, even with all my self-destructive behavior like binge eating, physical self-injury/self-harm, and several suicide attempts, I don't actually smoke. I tried a bit, and though I never minded the taste or smell in my mouth, I could never stand the smell it left on my fingers. So no more, except for the countless times I'm with friends in smoking areas inhaling 2nd hand.
I've mostly stopped drinking too ("mostly" because I'm still willing to sip to test taste), but that's a whole other story to turn into a lust filled poem 😄
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