Angelic. 

Ashes falling. Swirling down. Worn out shoes receiving cigarette shrapnel. Stop staring. Please stop staring. Black denim. Black shirt. Smoke carried through the wind. Alabaster hands. Alabaster face. Angelic. From a god I didn’t believe in. I believe now. Brown hair. Black sunglasses. Please stare. Please. Because I don’t have words. And that can be our communication. Eyes to eyes. Heart to heart. Audio not required. My eyes say let me love you. Your sunglasses shade me. I can’t grasp you. That drives me fucking crazy. But somehow I believe our thoughts are synchronized. That could be the last of my diminishing ego. That could be the last of my hope for something good. I don’t know. I just know I could look at you smoking a cigarette and hope that it never goes out. 

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