By Emily Petrou
It’s one of those nights.
The intervals of darkness which somehow spin my head infinite miles an hour
Pierce my plagued brain with pillowy soft sentiments of reality,
Incomprehensive to the eternal battle between the sweetest of distortion.
The cigarettes of daydreaming impair clear vision;
Heaps of puffy smoke scolding the tender waterline blemished;
with day-old eyeliner,
parched tears of unadulterated emptiness,
jaded indifference.
He reached into the clandestine chambers of my soul
He stretched and spread and gripped
When all he did was leave my heart sore
from the acute snap
of his puppet-master hands
Singing the bittersweet redemption of a story abandoned at the prologue
the gnaw of guilt nibbling my stomach
in the place of carefree butterflies.
He’s never loved me.
The cigarettes of daydreaming
unapologetically plastered
their very intention on the puny box itself.
“Smoking can cause a slow and painful death”.
A whiff of intoxicating, barren hope
lit by the hands of the boy that starred in my brightest of delusions.
Another puff.
Stubbing out the last trace of his enslaving warmth,
it dawns on me;
Skies frown and clouds spark in the awakening;
There’s no death slower and more painful
Than unrequited love.
