The smoke weaves tendrils around me,
As another unfinished goldflake,
Finds its way into the ashtray,
Just like our promises,
Half formed and hazy,
The difference is,
They were stamped underfoot,
The glowering end made to go out,
But it continues to smoulder.
You are a drug you know,
It's a two day euphoria that engulfs me,
After our not so clandestine meeting,
Only for the all too familiar heartache to return,
Plunging me into melancholia,
Demanding more of that drug,
Withdrawal ravaging my body.
The smoke has made my lungs raw,
Every breath is a cold steel knife,
Etching promises of unbroken, unfinished love,
On my sensitive innards.
The sickly sweet aroma of morphia,
That hangs in my room,
Is markedly different from your scent,
But both ensnare my senses,
Numb my pain,
And help me forget the strain.
Unknown demons wear your face,
And I am too intoxicated to differentiate,
If the arms that hold me,
Are there to keep me safe,
Or squeeze every last inch of life left in me.
Honestly, there is not much of a difference.
Your love is a drug, an addiction,
And unfortunately, detrimental for me.