What Is It?
I.
It's the smoke you watch unfurl from his mouth - he's trying to take longer drags now, and even as he fails, even as the stick burns out faster than ever, you lose yourself in the cancer you breathe in as the amber glows bright with each inhalation.
It's the way you close your eyes in acceptance of this blissfully agonising slow death, only to open them and find yourself the subject of someone else's attention. The wispy tendrils remind you of a purr, soft and seductive and reeking of death and disease. They curl ever so lazily around the cigarette, around his fingers.
And then you watch as the smoke moves upwards, carried away by the wind. They say that joss sticks and incense carry prayers and wishes to the gods - what if cigarettes were to do the same, you wonder. The gods may listen when one is praying, but perhaps the gods also pay attention to what smoke may carry when a person lights a cigarette.
II.
It's the way he creates - he sits down and picks up the pencil and it's breathtaking how he's so different the moment that happens. When he focuses, the world stops spinning and time itself holds its breath, and it feels as though he and his work are all that exists for him in that moment.
It's beautiful to watch, but it also feels strangely invasive, as though you're bearing witness to something you shouldn't be looking at. All of a sudden, it feels as though anything as simple as breathing could possibly tear him out of his moment, and you find yourself holding your breath, afraid to break his concentration. It's both foreign and familiar, this feeling, and you realise only now how much you treasure just being able to sit quietly and watch him work.
It's the way he just can't sit still for too long, and you smile as he bounces between his work and other distractions because you just don't know what to do, how to react to him. Then again, can you really call it a distraction when he sits at the piano?
His music is rough but true, and so hauntingly, achingly sad.
III.
Perhaps it's in the smoke, perhaps it's in the paper.
Maybe it's warm cologne, or a scent that you can't put your finger on but find familiar because you remember it from years ago.
Maybe it's the right person, maybe it's the wrong time.
Whatever it is, it's sweet and spicy - like a sauce, and you laugh to yourself - and bitter and sad and honest and true.
It's the smoke you watch unfurl from his mouth - he's trying to take longer drags now, and even as he fails, even as the stick burns out faster than ever, you lose yourself in the cancer you breathe in as the amber glows bright with each inhalation.
It's the way you close your eyes in acceptance of this blissfully agonising slow death, only to open them and find yourself the subject of someone else's attention. The wispy tendrils remind you of a purr, soft and seductive and reeking of death and disease. They curl ever so lazily around the cigarette, around his fingers.
And then you watch as the smoke moves upwards, carried away by the wind. They say that joss sticks and incense carry prayers and wishes to the gods - what if cigarettes were to do the same, you wonder. The gods may listen when one is praying, but perhaps the gods also pay attention to what smoke may carry when a person lights a cigarette.
II.
It's the way he creates - he sits down and picks up the pencil and it's breathtaking how he's so different the moment that happens. When he focuses, the world stops spinning and time itself holds its breath, and it feels as though he and his work are all that exists for him in that moment.
It's beautiful to watch, but it also feels strangely invasive, as though you're bearing witness to something you shouldn't be looking at. All of a sudden, it feels as though anything as simple as breathing could possibly tear him out of his moment, and you find yourself holding your breath, afraid to break his concentration. It's both foreign and familiar, this feeling, and you realise only now how much you treasure just being able to sit quietly and watch him work.
It's the way he just can't sit still for too long, and you smile as he bounces between his work and other distractions because you just don't know what to do, how to react to him. Then again, can you really call it a distraction when he sits at the piano?
His music is rough but true, and so hauntingly, achingly sad.
III.
Perhaps it's in the smoke, perhaps it's in the paper.
Maybe it's warm cologne, or a scent that you can't put your finger on but find familiar because you remember it from years ago.
Maybe it's the right person, maybe it's the wrong time.
Whatever it is, it's sweet and spicy - like a sauce, and you laugh to yourself - and bitter and sad and honest and true.
I wonder what the gods hear.
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