...and I am keeping her away.
This feels weird. This feels like, standing against a door - a door, which has neither a pull nor a push sign. Seconds passing by, lengthening the silence around - between me, and my mind. I quickly retrieve my packet of cigarette from the counter, and start looking for a lighter. I wish I knew if it was the smoke in my lungs, but I was sure, because there are lines drawn into me that I dare not cross, and because there are some promises I still keep.
Defense mechanism? Probably.
I take a puff, gathering my thoughts, realizing, fighting this silent noise my brain is making. Yes, shit happens. People die, fuck, fall in love, fuck, get out of love, fall in love, sleep, fuck again. And that is it. There is nothing said about it. There is nothing great about it. There is nothing fake about it. There is nothing, nothing about it. It just is. And you watch. And you listen. And you hear. And you feel. And you fucking keep quiet about it.
Are we arrogant enough to not realize that the city does not sleep on our shoulder? It cries for the smoke, that surrounds it, the unclear vision which hampers our mind-sight. But, the cigarettes are cheap. And tasteless. And the city is colorless and between the rust and ivory of people and papers, it's surrounded by this filthy smoke. Filthy fucking smoke.
I get up from the chair, I have been living on and drag myself to the counter for another cigarette. 7 left? I can never have enough. There's always too much. But, isn't that true? One more night to spend with her. One more hour of playing eye games. One more minute to stare at her, at her smile. One more second to look away from all of this. If only.
Gasping for air, slowly, taking in the scent she had left behind - coffee and smoke. There's not a whole lot to say about it, or anything.
All I know, some kid fucked up somewhere today, like always - and I can drink to that!