Distance and Time

Chapter I

Every morning a cigarette came between your lips, and you would ever so gently suck the life out of each. Giving it a departing kiss before laying it beneath your feet and crushing it to death, you would whisper lullabies of tomorrow as the ashes of another was ground in. And every morning, each one of my pores would open and inhale every trace of each puff because this smoke was laced with tastes of your tongue, and we wanted nothing more than that.

Every day the weight of your being would heave itself onto me until I became just that much smaller at each thought. You would wrap your soul through every fiber until I was saturated with the cologne of distance and time.

But the pressed flower that you were was caught between two heavy pages, and you too grew shriveled and dry as time wore on. Life had sucked every wick of moisture from your veins until you crumbled between my fingers.