The smell of sex and stale cigarettes, Two bodies connected in life and death, Chapped lips meet between the sheets, Lust in our bones, the Reaper in the air. How rare an oxymoron, neither with clothes on, We follow recreation with deadly inhalation, Skin touching skin, lips wrapped around uncertainty, Two separate entities leaned inwards somehow gently, Feeling so alive, cheating on life, We feel this need to disturb contented peace, -a mystery I can't revoke- By breathing in poison and spitting out smoke, An opaque cloud hangs over our dancing bodies, Suffocating the energy in every moan, Growing a dance of it's own, Only it's movements linger, in our hair and in our lungs, And in between our fighting tongues