Complex
She can't offer me more then kisses on the floor,
liquor sticking to my jeans and tongue.
I swallow down the feeling thick in my throat at the nauseating flavour of tobacco clinging to my canines,
focused instead on skin beneath my fingertips marred with scars and makeup.
She focuses on me when she talks,
so much so she doesnt know how close the cigarette is to burning her fingers,
but I keep my eyes watching a thick buildup of ash form.
Knowing I waste away much the same beneath her, tempting only on nights like this.
I try not to pay too much attention to fickle fingers fiddling with it,
or I'll never be able to focus again.
She won't ever want me- but it's nice when she drinks enough to think she might.
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