Aren't we all made out of love? Even if momentarily, we must've loved something, even if it was brief. It fills you in and gushes all over you.
I still remember the distinct smell of her sweat, and how I could've worn it everyday. It filled my lungs, gave me a moment of peace. Now I fill my lungs with cigarette smoke, a moment of nothingness. The, god I needed this, to I feel disgusting. It's so intimate, cigarette butt between my lips, it's not as soft as her lips but it sure hits me so hard. They're sure not as sweet as her but then I would open a pack of kinder joy not to please the kid inside me but to rather kill it.
It's really subjective what I feel. And then I think well fuck it I guess. I know I said love fills you up, just like the smoke fills your lungs. And in that moment, it's all yours. You decide how long you want to keep it in you. Maybe you have to let it go eventually. Eventually, yes. But maybe we've got it all wrong, love wasn't about filling you in, it was about what was left hollow after it, the high even if it melts you down, turns you to ashes. It's the ashes of love that was once.
Now that raises a question in my heart, or lungs shall I say? Towards the end as the awful taste of the ciggs kick in, do you still smoke or kill your darling. What does this teach me? To kill your darlings or smoke them in? Maybe none. Maybe you never light it. But my lips miss hers and I light another one.
