cinnamon and cigarettes

Neon pink wax, tonight's sleepless clay that I use to mold and sculpt with my fingertips like a child with bubblegum who no longer has anybody to tell me to spit it out or make sure I don't swallow or what the difference even is between right and wrong. pulling apart, a matching visual of a burning ember in my hands just hours ago, outside of the bar, as I flicked the rest of my cigarette onto the ground.

Now, a cold summer room attempts to hold me, before the world wakes, let me rest under a gray skylight disguised sunrise happening outside. drifting between last night and tomorrow in a bed of white blankets and sheets, draped walls of tapestries, the sound of the air conditioner and it's temperature gleam in lime green. the two digits, my only lines of certainty.

I can still smell the cigarettes and cinnamon gum, the kind I didn't play with because I have learned to behave, and because I felt like playing with your hair and your earlobes instead. I can still feel you pressed against me, burning and melting in the brightest of colors.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8sha4k/3_am_thoughts/e0zgm8q/?context=3 https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8sb2uw/a_genocide_of_roses/e10fcng/?context=3