All I have left are hologram people. Untouchable phantoms living in sepia smoke. Living beyond grasp and cling. Surviving the space of a breath.

Love on the astral plane or love on the clock? Expired messages and bursts of paradise buried beneath layer upon layer of dust and neglect.

Used to bond over half finished plans of escape. With our waists wrapped in celluloid and fingers clawing into Silicon Valley.

Behind the smokescreen of feeling, memories scream in anguish. Memories in a skeletal echo.

2 thoughts on “Cigs”

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