Last Cigarette Before Bed

In the very early hours,
as I watch somniferous tendrils
of smoke rise from my cigarette,
I feel the grip of loneliness.
That tangible feeling of its arms
wrapped about me,
like a lover who could not care less,
the reluctant hug of a stranger.
It presses against my body
with an insistent grip
meant to suffocate,
it never wants to let go.
I long for someone to replace it,
peel away its vice like grip,
and hold me tenderly.
Just once.
Just
once.

The Art of War

It starts,
As these things always do,
With the smallest of things.
A remark from me,
A comment back from you.

Suddenly the game commences
The battle lines are drawn.
We bolster our defences
Man the cannons, ready the guns.

The gloves are off.
The claws are out.
With swords unsheathed,
We join in war

Love is forgotten,
As vitriol grows.
Only the winning matters,
Your rules, my rules,
No rules,
When we come to blows.

Because right now,
You are ice,
I am fire,
Circling each other

Words fly like arrows,
Blotting out the sun.
The air is filled
With screams of rage,
it’s too late now
To turn the page.

Anger burns respect away,
Calculated barbs hide our guilt,
change the state of play.

And suddenly,
It’s over.
I deal the mortal blow.
Silence,
Descends on our battlefield.
Tears flow like blood.