U took my user name• Show poetry

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se tu soubesses o quanto eu te amo, não me deixaria amar-te... porque o amar é suicídio o mais doce.
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Thoughts of the Night

Burn in Passionate death?

I like my caramel macchiato during the winter season. In a strange way, it’s my cup of warmth, of a smooth taste that is just right, a cup of life, of you. It’s still untouched. Gray smoke swims like a mermaid out of her full red lips, which every few moments kiss the cigarette. I look at the cigarette slowly burn, as every time she inhales, it creates a bright red ring on its end. Is it burning in passion, or in death, leaving nothing but ashes? I don’t know. The streetlight just turned on outside; it’s getting dark. Unlike my white foamy drink, in front of her sits a small porcelain cup of black coffee. Its sides stained with her red lipstick. She is dazed off looking out the glass window of the Café. I miss you. And I stare at her…I know what she is thinking. I know the depth of her thoughts, her mind. It’s raining now. I run my fingers on the rim of my white porcelain cup, then with the little spoon I swirl the foamy layer…it slowly disappears, and my delicious caramel macchiato changes color from its purity to a chocolaty shade. She sucks on the cigarette, I see the red ring again, burning, very fast, then the smoke flows through her lips and it lingers about for a few seconds… then dispersers into the air. I like the rain. For some reason, instead of the smoke, I imagine musical notes. The silent music of her heart. I need you. A sweet clandestine melody. I take a sip, taste its smoothness, a sweet warmth of love. Your love. We have been silent for a while now. We are both in our own worlds. Her brown eyes give such a cold look that it feels like her stare is going to break the glass… And I, am with you. There. Not in this Cafe, but in a world so foreign, but so familiar, with you. In your arms. The foam fades away even more with every sip. It’s getting a little cold. The cigarette seems to get shorter and shorter. Her lips constantly create a shape as if she is going to say a long “u.” It looks rather sexy. Her black nails caress the cup as if trying to entice it for an incredible moment of passion with her lips. Another sip. I feel I miss you. Another puff. I think I need you. Another smoke. There’s an old woman walking her little tiny dog outside…Did you know? Another long inhale… one last bright ring, of passion? It’s done. She crushes it on the ashtray while releasing its last burning passion in the form of a dancing hazy smoke out of her lips. I take another sip, without taking my eyes off the burning cigarette. She takes out another one, and like a pro, she lights it. “Let me get it,” I break the silence. She puts it between her lips once, sucking the life out of it, the red ring lets out a silent scream of painful unavoidable slow death. A cold gray thread of smoke leaves through her lips now. I don’t need you. Then she passes it to me.