smoke


Through the smoky room I see your silhouette sat seductively behind the typewriter. You flick your hair to the side and roll your eyes with that way you have of looking so disgusted with a world in which convention is the overriding force. Slowly sliding your head towards the desk you raise a cigarette to your full lips and suck on it as if hoping to derive the last puffs of freedom from life itself. You’d rather live self destructively and taste life than live a clean and orderly life of family and home and children… and this I find irresistible. Chaos is your art. You part your legs as if to tempt and promise… a promise unfulfilled as you fold one leg over the other. You utter a few words and your French accent croaks from a smoky throat sending vibrations of pleasure through my body. I want to reach out and touch and kiss as you raise a glass to your lips and sip whiskey. I long to be that glass. I long to be the whiskey and the glass, to simultaneously touch your lips and be inside of you. The smoke is a fragrance of delight and makes me feel light headed with desire. All I can do is lie down and pick up this lonely book whilst I listen to your fingers tapping the keys to add words written in a language that I cannot read upon the virgin page.

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