addicted

Your lips, so soft, so beautiful, so inviting. But they’re a trap, an illusion, a decieving trick. The touch of our lips reveals the bitter taste of smoke on your tongue. With every word you speak I can’t help but cringe at the breath of a last cigarette on your teeth. You’ve done it again. You promised you wouldn’t. I remember the days when I could follow a trail of vauge floral aromas and find you at the end. But here, tonight, you reek of ashtray. Wrapping your hips between my legs, putting on a show for me tonight. You call it ‘making love’ but you’ll never love me like you love the nicotine. Your hands slithering up and down my body, carcessing me in all the right places. But it doesn’t feel right. Those hands that touch my body, the same hands that hold cigarettes, that flick ashes, that light butts. I can’t focus on your love, wondering why my love isn’t enough. Isn’t enough for you to stop. I want to be your nicotine. I want to be the life that inflates your lungs. When you inhale my love, it will be enough. I want my adreneline to be what courses through your veins, not the tobacco. I want to be the reason you exhale.