Ashes (or smoking makes you look cool)
Worn fingers casually dress you.
Head to toe, white fabric clings yet
dark tendrils still peak through
searching out bad habits.
He moves you closer; like a thrill
it catches you and lights you up.
Hands steady, he breathes you in and
you smolder till it burns.
In these moments you both know trust and
thoughts of stopping briefly quit. But,
once spent, you’re casually discarded
and, with your fragrance heavy in the air,
he moves on to craft another.
Brightness dims to powder grey,
you’re ashes trodden under foot.
you’re dirty. You fall, used.