cigarette smoke.

I miss the smell of your cigarettes. I miss the sight of you sitting sensually sipping a glass of red wine whilst a cigarette burns between your fingers. Slightly inebriated you would discuss everything from the folly of traditional relationships through the hopelessness of social networking to the problems of modern politics and I would listen with a smile on my face and try to resist the violent urge to get up and kiss you. A few hundred metres down the road you’re alone, playing piano, and I am here, alone, writing this note and wondering what the future holds for two who are lonely and lost, self-destructive and sensitive.

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