I remember that late night in October. When we danced the frigid night away, and I could see my own breath, like the smoke from my first cigarette. After so many cigarettes, I could tell I fell more into it. The more I stored the less I quit. It's just this feeling I get. When I don't know what to say. Later I'll figure out the perfect words to convey to you. And the nicotine mellowed me out, as my winding thoughts crashed into the words from your mouth. Pneumonia will end what your whispering has started. As she smoked her's fast, I burned my lips on the filter. It's just this feeling I get. When I don't know what to say. Later I'll figure out the perfect words to convey to you. She wants a love that's real. She's unsure if she wants it now. All these morning conversations leave ash burns on my mouth.
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