Think of beauty.

Think of bright red lips.

Thick smoke may try to hide the passionate colour bleeding through, but it fails every time.

I look over and see you leaning against the wall you’ve proclaimed as your own, and I see someone other than the fog that creeps around her.

The lips. Pink? Maybe a darker colour, a black or a deep red? It wouldn’t matter.

But the orange.

I like any orange that’s able to contain such chaos that I know is dwelling inside us both.

Orange fights chaos. No need to add more to it. No need to live without it. I need to smoke.

How long for? (and) How much time taken?

I need to be free of the kind of beauty that leaves me empty but every time I walk away my weak spirit drags me back home.

Soft smoke has danced through my mind, lightly tiptoeing into my deepest desires, sending signals of joy to the tips of fingers that do the job that cannot be undone.

My body is a wasteland of orange and smoke, parading me across the world and controlling my every thought.

And my lips?

If the lips are the gateway, and a kiss the gatekeeper, how could they have allowed this state of being?

Mine and your kisses once soft and wet, now chapped and empty.

And all that will be left is an orange stub and a lipstick stained cigarette.