If I told you to quit smoking,
Because it's bad for your health,
I'd be a filthy hypocrite.

"I can't quit," you tell me.
"It's a bad habit," I reprimand.
Your answer is a deep draw, and
A cloud of smoke.

You've draped yourself against our balcony;
You're awash in the moon's surreal glow.
I can't get over how angelic
You look, smoking in the pale moonlight.

"I'm a bad habit of yours, aren't I, love?"
You whisper, and my heart skips a beat
From your small, half-smile;
The one you save for only me.

You saunter over and curl your
Fingers through my hair.
I seek out your lips
From your illuminated profile.

You taste like cinnamon and

I can feel you smile against
My mouth, as you whisper,
"Filthy hypocrite…"


Author's Note:

Just a short poem I whipped out today, after talking to my friend about the pros and cons of smoking... :P

Review please! :D

~Avid. :)

All works: © AvidWriter-92. Fictionpress User I.D. 717443. 2010.