Morianrhod
Does Her Best.
Three strikes and you’re out.
One strike.
An early autumn day with a brisk wind in the fallen leaves, sat under a tall beech tree, beside your lover’s side, wrapped tightly under their warm and heavy coat that you didn’t think to bring oh why didn’t you think to bring, snuggled by their side laughing at nosy dogs that snuffle past as you secretly touch each others’ lips.
A menthol cigarette, passed between lovers, discarded casually.
Two strike.
A late winter rendezvous. The cold rain falls in sheets into your face as you walk hurriedly into the torrent.
They struggle to catch a light, once, twice, grumbling then trying a third time. Two puffs, three puffs.
Your old lover passses you the cigarette.
A regular tobacco cigarette, bought cheaply, tossed aside in the gutter.
An untrained drag on the mouth of the cigarette. A grimace as the bitter taste coats the tongue. You breathe out quickly, pretending you meant to do that, pretending you still remember how it’s done, pretending that it tastes as good as you remember as you struggle to keep up with your lover in the sheets of rain as they puff at their smoke like a little steam train puffing away in the grime and grey of London City.
Three strike
The half remembered kiss, ages ago in a secluded bedroom, fantasised over.
The kiss covered in the scent of adventure and fresh smoke.
The tongue that playfully teased your lips as you strained to remember all of this moment, committing it to memory.
It tasted better than it ever did and ever will.
No more Cigarettes for me.
One strike.
An early autumn day with a brisk wind in the fallen leaves, sat under a tall beech tree, beside your lover’s side, wrapped tightly under their warm and heavy coat that you didn’t think to bring oh why didn’t you think to bring, snuggled by their side laughing at nosy dogs that snuffle past as you secretly touch each others’ lips.
A menthol cigarette, passed between lovers, discarded casually.
Two strike.
A late winter rendezvous. The cold rain falls in sheets into your face as you walk hurriedly into the torrent.
They struggle to catch a light, once, twice, grumbling then trying a third time. Two puffs, three puffs.
Your old lover passses you the cigarette.
A regular tobacco cigarette, bought cheaply, tossed aside in the gutter.
An untrained drag on the mouth of the cigarette. A grimace as the bitter taste coats the tongue. You breathe out quickly, pretending you meant to do that, pretending you still remember how it’s done, pretending that it tastes as good as you remember as you struggle to keep up with your lover in the sheets of rain as they puff at their smoke like a little steam train puffing away in the grime and grey of London City.
Three strike
The half remembered kiss, ages ago in a secluded bedroom, fantasised over.
The kiss covered in the scent of adventure and fresh smoke.
The tongue that playfully teased your lips as you strained to remember all of this moment, committing it to memory.
It tasted better than it ever did and ever will.
No more Cigarettes for me.
