You were always the thing that was going to kill me.

People have different ways of letting their lives slowly die, and you, would be the reason on my autopsy. You chose a cigarette to be the cause of your death. Bitter, yet left you with a certain satisfaction I could not give you. No matter how low that lilac dress was, or how much mango Shea butter I wore, you would not let me in. Even after you would slip my panties off, you would light a cigarette to keep your passion burning, because I was just not enough. You were like a porcupine with the way you kept me out with sharp jabs and pointed looks that would make my heart melt even though those things were not intended to bring me to my knees. God, you were the worst. But I don't think I could ever stop loving the way your cigarette light danced on the wall. Even after you've broken my heart.