it's midnight. he is clutching a cigarette between his fingertips as he watches his lovers gravestone shine in the pale moonlight. she is gripping a bottle between her fingertips and she is sharing it with her lover as they watch the stars together. it is like they are together, and yet so far apart.

their roads are blocked with floods of alcohol and a fog so thick it can almost mask their heartbreak. almost. their thoughts are stunted with 'what ifs'; with 'how comes'; with 'why, dear god, why did this happen to me?' it is almost as if they wish it could've happened to someone else. almost. it is almost as if they are looking at their lovers and not at each other.

his gaze lingers on her eyes, on her wet lips; on the half empty bottle in her hand. her gaze follows the trail of smoke making its way out of his mouth and the cigarette between his fingertips. it is at that exact moment, when she tips the bottle to her lips and he inhales his oxygen through a filter, that they understand what love is.

it is the cold feeling of glass, not the warm feeling of a hand. it is the sound of a lighter flicking on, not the murmur of a heartbeat. love is smoke; love is a heavy tongue; love is nicotine; love is seeing the world split into three.

love is them leaving the dirt and walking over to each other. it is cold clammy hands holding warm shaking ones as they give each other a gift. it is a whisper of words exchanged to one another as they realise that this is the last time they will see each other.

'i'm not addicted anymore.'

'neither am i.'

fin.