i started smoking for you, i thought maybe then you would love me as much as you loved the cigarette posing between your lips.

call me naive, but the thought of you craving me like you longed for that rush of nicotine sent flames through my frozen core.

part of me wished you would look at me with equal passion in your eyes, as to when your shaky hands would fumble with your lighter.

although i’d cough and feel my lungs clench with hatred, my heart would thaw and my fingertips would would tingle as we’d sit, merged on that bench.

all that mattered was me being with you; two smoking chimneys on slate roofs, even on those cold winter nights, sharing that brief warmth from the sharp inhales.

but then you saw her, rosey lungs and flushed cheeks. you put down the pack and tossed your lighter; she was a refreshing spring breeze, the tulips now blooming in your decaying lungs.

all i’m left with is half a pack of fags and an empty lighter, full of excuses as to why i perch on this bench everyday. no flowers blossoming in the concrete of my heart, just a void.

yet i’m still sitting on this bench with the thick sticky tar, that viscous darkness clogging my airways killing me slowly but releasing me from the squalor and torment you left me in.