Stale Smoke

I found one of her stale cigarettes, and without a sense of etiquette, smoked it right down to the bone.The stale taste and firey smoke, just like what you made me toke, when you wrenched out my faith, with no path to atone.Fresh snow covers again the paths we took, while rushing and removing the hooks, that I’m not even sure were real.Obviously, I love too deep, too much, and all the other such and such, and although I still think of the passion I still feel on my back the tread marks from your wheels.
-Thomas Spychalski

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