She looked like poetry

 She didn’t look sad. She looked like poetry. The one you spent all your life trying to understand, and when you finally think you figure it out, she changes. The meanings change and the rime and all you have left is the one you used to know. She looked melancholic, sad, beautiful and victorious, all at the same time. She loved to be known as the one who didn’t gives a f**k. Guess what, now she does. Way to much. But why should she hide that? You can see that she is hurt, that she is broken. But god, it worked for her. She was more beautiful than ever. And that honesty, that feeling that moves you to the core, you can read it in her face. Yeah, this honesty gave her something else. Born to stand out, made to fit in. No more of that. She doesn’t fit in. She shines, she breaks, she is real. And that, my darling, is something so rare in our days. So out of the ordinary. And that’s exactly what will make her stand.

She put the cigarette in her mouth, the only thing she had from home. She light it up, and breathe it in like her whole life depends on it. But only she could know what it’s going through her head. It was him. The cigarettes taste exactly like his kissed. Like all the moments they spend together. So she smokes. In and out, breathing him in, smoking him out. Then again, and again, just so she could feel him again. And when the cigarettes will burn out, all that’s left will be the feeling. The pale feeling of his arms around her and the taste of his lips pressed hard against hers. And for now, that’s enough. She doesn’t need anybody else, she doesn’t want anybody else. Because he is the only cigarette she always needs, the only thing she is addicted. And baby, there is no recovery from that.

Black coffee, like always? No, there’s nothing poetic about black coffee. The real poetic one was a cafe late with milk and sugar, because that’s what she really likes There’s no need for poetic s**t, reality is the most fucked up poetry. And she finally understood that. Not that late, but it was the time. The time for being who she really is. For smoking only the cigarettes that remind her of him and for the cafe late and for the cruel reality, that they were never meant to happen. But f**k the odds. F**k what is usually the case, f**k statistics. F**k everything that isn’t love, poetry and music. F**k the math, the sane things and all the things that make sense in this world. They are so overrated. They are so in our head. Reality isn’t something that is exact. We all have our own reality, and if that makes us insane, then she doesn’t want to be sane. She only wants him, and all the books in this world, and the music that makes a difference and sex and cigarettes and all the things that make her feel alive. But the sweet irony, everything that kills her, makes her feel alive. She doesn’t care. She already has everything she ever needed or wanted. Him.
No need for fake. No need for reality. No need for anything she doesn’t like. No need for broken dreams. No need for broken hearts.
Because she was his, and he was hers, and everything seemed right in this world.