You are not my ideal. But you smile, and I think of tattooing your perfume into my bloodstream.
I left him in September, it's December now. Last year I was consuming cigarettes, creating a cheap imitation of a fickle ex lover.
I give him my confession, he holds it in the palm of his hand; wrapping it in blankets of bad timing, and trying to love her again.
Now is not the time, she mutters.
He'll ask her again when the tree blooms.
