When our lips first met I knew she was a cigarette,
Bitter, detrimental to my health, and addictive.
With every drag, I tasted a melancholic menthol and new dimensions of sadness and pessimism, her cloudy outlook on life.
She kept reminding me that she was a quick fix, that no light burns forever
But in my darkness, the sensation she provides, her ingredients tingling on my lips rectify her issues of longevity.
I inhale slowly to savour her–My satisfaction, her stimulation.
Ashes drift like our conversations.
She warned me that she wasn’t Forever,
Only a taste of what forever will never be.
Anguish in the ashtray