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I missed you,
so I painted
my lungs black.My lungs
became as
dark as
the night.They no longer
put up a fight
with the smoke.My lungs
became
filled
with stars
every time
I coughed.When your
name is brought
up, my lungs
get blacker.I smoke
paintbrushes
from morning
to nightfall.Maybe one day,
I’ll paint my
heart red again.
#785 // A poem about cigarettes and regret. (via poetryleftbyher)
Me, if I smoked.
She’s smoke.. I pull her in nice and slow.. She’s a habit and I can’t let go.. Blowing rings around my heart..
Smoke - A Thousand Horses (via indiana-country-boy)
“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”
— Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
I like your letters like whiskey and cherries and smoke and honey,
Dylan Thomas, from a letter to Emily Holmes Coleman c. February 1937 (via 69rooms)
“If everyone fought fire with fire, the entire world would go up in smoke.”
Violet Baudelaire aesthetic.
-The Puttanesca Project
sorcery
silk threads that separate us, are heavy with her radiance—her words fall short, i never complain, i fill their spaces in my pages; she howls during initiation, while i’m stuck in her throat, always unprepared; she comes back with the sea, with salt, gently blows my fire, we become smoke; her kohl eyes, alluring spells, raise waves to consume me, i’m bare, i never resist, i lie down, slowly; she captures my details, exact moments, whispers in my ear—only to disappear inside me.