wait,

 I want a smoke so bad I can feel it in my veins,

I can taste the ash in my heart. I know I am deteriorating

under stress, under all those cliche 

things that rains down daily on the mundane life 

I like to pose as interesting. Its all been done before. 

Its all been said. In so many different ways,

it feels like a new concept. But it’s not.

Its nothing. Nothing is nothing like the cold

cup of coffee left in the microwave. 

I’ll always come back for it. 

Anticipating heat, but feeling nothing but air.

You already have it in your hands as the steam

slips up your nose and to your brain hitting you 

with caffeine. Like a cigarette never put out

taking the whole damn house in flames,

licking it’s fingers with every flake of ashen misery.

Lick lick lick, I’d like to taste it from your lips, 

the illusion I am painting, red laden love 

so past expiration date. Sitting in the fridge making 

all sour, ruining the perfect black with chunks

you dont notice. I notice, I notice, I can taste 

the curdling from your lips, I can taste it 

on your checks, your eyes, your wrinkled hands. 

But the shadow hides that, as the steams fogs 

the window, the streaks and streams 

of losing time to clean, it was all so brilliant 

and beautiful when we started. wasn’t it? 

So novel like the first drag after a long day, 

hitting your temples with satisfaction

if only for a second, taking brain cells all for

the purpose of living, or writing of feeling 

the deepest black we can no longer see. 

look into the cup full of nothing, the smoke 

that formulates the outlines that are becoming 

blurred and far to anticipated. It is gone. 

I needed it too much to be there. 

 

Reviews

[Cassidy Mask]

I like your use of the extended metaphor. good write. :)