Smoke Crystals and Streetlights

He liked Thai food and movies at 1:25 in the morning, 

he loved to watch my eyeshadow glimmer like a shiny peach, 

and the feeling of his shoes on the airport floor. 

He was preoccupied with the word paracosm, 

and the song Pinball Wizard and pinball, 

and the look of button down shirts on small women. 

He always thought that sitting at home was pointless shelter, 

and that a cigarette was just another cigarette,

and that when I wrote in my journal instead of talking I was running away. 

He never liked when I wore something to contradict him, 

or the taste of my nectar steamed tea,

or when I came home later than I had intended to. 

He never stopped being a light like no other, 

and never stopped telling me stories of dreams,

and stories of him and me that were as destined to happen as

the sun and the moon were destined to be out at one time. 

He crystalized on a night where I swear that the snow was stained some color of red

and the voices sounded like tracks off of a VCR.

A cigarette was just another cigarette, 

but it was the smoke that told me he was already dead. 

He was already dead because when I looked up to him

on that condensed street road like bitter honey,

he was thinking about stepping in front of my taxi cab. 

Reviews

[Kringnicles]

I cried.. I love you.

"and that when I wrote in my journal instead of talking I was running away."

I think this is one of my favorites of what you've written. I hope you never stop because you're insanely talented.