Pink Cigarette

The breeze blew through the silk white curtains for a moment. The room was a complete farrago of smoked cigarettes, broken glass, and stifled emotions. He was the only one culpable for his situation, the disgrace on his face barely covered by the dense smoke that surrounded him. A sigh was heard as the class of cognac was carelessly clanked with the surface of the table. He let his hand run over the burnt holes in the sheets, feeling the rugged edge. The feeling reminded him of her.

There's just five hours left until you find me dead. . .​

Her lackluster brown eyes that would burrow straight through him. All of these years, all of the burns, all of the torment. He'd put up with it for so long, longer then any other man surely would have. He deluded himself into thinking she had a heart, but alas, she did not. Her sybaritic attitude had caused him to feel insufficient, that he could not provide her with the pleasures she claimed to have needed. So now, quite obviously, she had gone else where to find what she desired.

There's just four hours left until you find me dead. . . ​

She left upon the bed, one of her half smoked cigarettes, a Virginia Slim. How could he forget that her lips were there? They left a pink imprint on the white paper that held the tobacco. Her lips had been everywhere but him, showing her love and her affection. The slap on his cheek still stung, however, not as much as her words did.

The burns were not just in the sheets, but they were imbedded, deep within him. Now she's told him everything, he refuses to let her burn him yet again. Secretly, he knows she will come back. By tomorrow morn she'll be knocking on the door, begging to be allowed back inside. He's going to leave her a grand surprise for her to come back to, he knew that for sure. A grand, perplexing surprise.

There's just three hours left until you find me dead. . .

Scrawling a note on crumpled paper, he left it on the bedside. Everything seemed to be moving in a slow motion picture, the swigs of alcohol, the blowing of smoke from his lips, the wind entering from the balcony. His breaths even seemed to come in slower as he laid on the bed. He felt as if he was slowly dying. Slowly dying from a broken heart.

There's just two hours left until you find me dead. . .

How excited he was, he only wished he could see her face when she discovered him. However, he could perfectly imagine her reaction. How could that cigarette have been closer to her then he had ever been? Something so small, so insignificant, it apparently meant more than he did.

There's one more hour and then you will find me dead. . .

A light. Let it fall. He'll be closer to her then he ever was before. Now purged of the constant need for love.

There's just. . .​

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