Dried petals

#41

he smelled
of burned
cigarettes
and ink.
she was
cold coffee
at 3.am
and torn
pages
mixed with
a scent of
dust.
she would
engulf
herself in
his smoke
every
morning,
to taste
the fire
that kisses
his lips,
while his
pen would
try to fill
the empty
space of
her unfinished
book,
making her
drink each
word he
wrote for
her.
they were
each other's
addiction,
for he was
the ink
and she
was the
paper.