Consumed

A display of style with a subtle metaphor.

The warm glow of the streetlamp above flickers in sync with the cigarette between my lips, and a dull pastel glow shines from the pink neon behind me. A buzz emanates from the thick, colored tubes - fading into the roars of the old pickups and eighteen-wheelers gliding down the stretch of tar with only the signs to guide them, headlights stretching out into the night. In the distance, the road curves - moves with the land as if some long time ago it planted itself there, not unlike a tumbleweed would. My cracked lips are singed as my smoke expires, fervently devoured, consumed as my reality by your very being. I squash the embers of my killer with my boot, and look up. The stars are bright here.  

Author's Note

When this was workshopped, nobody noticed the metaphor. It's really only present by a few words - I feel as though I should expand on it.