My old jeans,
and her stories.
A familiar scent; it seems:
of the morning dew and her tobacco,
Each old habit yet like a new sensation in my pocket..
Where can I find you then,
in the aroma where we are ; ourselves temporarily?

I feel nicotine in her fondness and her datermination;
for a longing you’re not really prepared for.
Can you tell me the reason before my empty mind reaches the morning floor?
Was it already enough,
the dark grey substance on my fingertops?
Is it already obvious;
Your yearning that never stops?

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