Post Sex Cigarettes
I don’t smoke, and other lies
Red wine half-circles
A path of clothing from the couch to the bedroom
The light sound of summer rain
Warm breath and glassy eyes
Curled smoke from open lips
Still breathing heavily
Lazily
Post sex
Poisoning ourselves with our own lust
Combined addictions
Just a taste to satisfy
Our own obsessive desires to breath in more than just each other
In our own little world of combined smoke rings and tongues
Highlights of grey drifting delicately to the ceiling
Like our minds
Floating away into the nothingness
Sticky sweet sweat still clinging to our backs
About the Creator
Ciara Wholey
My thoughts and musings.
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I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford7 days ago in Fiction
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