Poetry

124. perfect addictions

stolen glances

She smoked like a Serb.
Her fingers always reeked of cigarettes and her kisses were ashen.

It didn’t bother him, the smoke. He grew to love it in the end,
especially when
she woke up early and made coffee, then sat in the kitchen
cup in one hand, first fag of the day in other.

And for some curious reason it smelled of home,
tasted like exotic, oriental spice.
Never cheap tobacco.

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