cigarette in your bed

The soft and inviting light of early morning flits through our window as I wake from a night of well-earned sleep. Our apartment is still half-empty, with boxes full of adolescent memories we’ve both long since forgot. We just moved in yesterday. I reach over to the bedside table and grab a cigarette from an all-too-empty pack. I take a long drag and feel my blood hungrily soak up the nicotine. I turn to you. I see the outline of your back. I see your velvety swaths of dark brown hair draped down onto the shitty bed we got from your parents. You’re still fast asleep. I hope you’re having a beautiful dream. As I listen to your gentle breath, I look past you to the world outside. The city was waking up with me. Cars drove past the window going too fast. Men and women with places to be rushed to those places the way they’ve done it every day for 15 years. I think to myself that we’ll do things differently. I look back to you. You’re looking right back at me with eyes full of love. Your eyes are so full of intelligence and kindness and devotion that I almost start to cry. I pray you see the same in my eyes. Without looking away, you ask for a cigarette.

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