an alternative to ennui
I guess it’s February
I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.
But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”
Is it distasteful to state the obvious?
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