The Spoon

He smoked like a writer

thecrowsingstoo:

Hand hollowed over the timid flame- 
He sighed to empty his lungs and 
Embraced the greying smoke with its
Deep black wings fluttering against the calloused shell of his body. 
Sleek as a raven, the smoke worked her way 
Into his frigid frame. Her charcoal hands melted
The ice of brittle solitude that had clung to his bones
And made crystals in his marrow. 

He felt her in his blood, the grey curls 
Spiraling down to his feet like velvet folds. 
His solitude had simmered into something shadowy, 
Opaque, and impossible to read- like the thick of a feathered fog.
And he knew then, the cigarette’s bliss
Hanging from his lip, that he was not alone. 
Because no one could see him 
From behind this wall of smoke and mirrors.

via thecrowsingstoo