Stubbed out in Ashtrays
We always talked about leaving.
Packing up our shitty little lives and taking off in the middle of the night.
You’d dream aloud of Beach houses in Cornwall,
Youth hostels in Eastern Europe.
And I dreamt of waking up to a foreign sunrise and a cigarette breakfast.
Balcony light spilling through torn curtains
Illuminating golden hair, splayed across pillows while you slept.
It was but a dream of our adolescent idiocies.
Forgotten, along with the rest of me.
And now, I wake up alone. Not in the suburbs or Paris,
Or an apartment overlooking the Ramblas,
But in the state you left me.
And the only gold that shines in my life is the burning cherry.
Like the orange sun that never bore the sweat of our skin,
Browning like the filter.
Stubbed out.
In ashtrays.
Packing up our shitty little lives and taking off in the middle of the night.
You’d dream aloud of Beach houses in Cornwall,
Youth hostels in Eastern Europe.
And I dreamt of waking up to a foreign sunrise and a cigarette breakfast.
Balcony light spilling through torn curtains
Illuminating golden hair, splayed across pillows while you slept.
It was but a dream of our adolescent idiocies.
Forgotten, along with the rest of me.
And now, I wake up alone. Not in the suburbs or Paris,
Or an apartment overlooking the Ramblas,
But in the state you left me.
And the only gold that shines in my life is the burning cherry.
Like the orange sun that never bore the sweat of our skin,
Browning like the filter.
Stubbed out.
In ashtrays.
