Anytime.
We talk, I always say that;
"I'm okay."
But ever since that cold day in November.
You crushed my heart, yet act like you don't remember.
Anytime.
I press a stick of tobbaco against my lips.
It subtly reminds me of your kiss.
But anytime I smoke
I start to choke.
Not from the cigarette.
But just me, remembering all the good times we have.
As the tears stream down my face.
The elusive mist takes the place.
Of what we could've been.
Of what I wanted us to be.
But in the end.
It's just the smoke and me.