I wonder how you can stand being around me each time I light that next cigarette. I did expect you to give me a hard time last night when I asked you to bring me a pack on your way here. I suspect that you would refuse this little request in favor of your much more bigger concern for my well being. Either way would have still made me feel giddy, warm and fuzzy in inside. They must surely be talking about two the incident two nights ago. And possibly confirmed the suspicion of some the past many months that we have been silently retreating to a little corner, engrossed in our conversations. The only way we could staid off the desire to look at each other's face for long periods.
And now that we can, well... we can't really... but somehow we have much more space for consideration... we still find ourselves in the crippling knowledge that somehow things like these has to meet its tragic end. That is after all its narrative inevitability.
Are we then simply not postponing our tragedy? One that we know of from the very beginning? That is why we are both shit sacred to cross the threshold that we have so wanted the last many months of evasion? I don't know for myself either. All I know is that no matter how I want to make out a rational move, I want to hold off on it because I'd rather hold your face tonight than not see you at all.
