The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


62. October

The frigid air of that cold October night lingered in the smoky air around me.

With every breath drawn into my lungs, you were just a little bit closer to me.

I wanted you to stay close to me forever, not wanting to let you go, for fear that you wouldn’t come back.

I coughed, almost forgetting how to breathe, exhaling you in the process.

It was never about the cancer stick between my fingers, or the multiple empty packs of them that littered my cars’ floor and the bottom of my bag.

No matter how poetically sad I can try to make this won’t change the fact that I’m dying slowly, but a little faster than you.

This isn’t a broken love story, no matter how much I write about it can change that.

Because the day I saw you holding a cigarette, you told me you would never love me, not even if I were cancerous.

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