This is the start to something. It's not finished. Thanks for your thoughts; I'll return them.

Cigarettes are touchy. Well, not the cigarettes, but the holder. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle their cigarettes. Some people hide them and spray that shit all over their body as if the rest of the world won't smell the smoke on their breath. Some flaunt them; they need humanity to know they're getting some type of little buzz. Some are willing to share their cigarettes; some hoard them.

The problem is that it's impossible to know what kind of person you're dealing with without taking a risky step.

One night you and I smoked cigarettes in the rain. I brought mine just because I thought you might be there; thought you might need someone to share a smoke with. (Truth is, I hadn't smoked in months. I didn't even really like smoking. But for some reason, I knew I would that night.)

It was mid-June; midnight. We were outside the little shack of a restaurant that so graciously let me fill its room with my music. The streetlights left me looking at you through sepia-toned lenses. You were beautiful.

I felt everything that night. It was one of the first times I actually felt. I hadn't been sober for long--twelve days maybe--and the world was already screaming so loudly at me, but the voices seemed to quiet down when I was with you. (That didn't make the world become more peaceful; if anything, it made the waves of this new life crash even harder against my already beaten and bruised shores.)

We didn’t say much; not much was needed to be said. Besides, I was no good at talking to people anyway. So we stood there on the sidewalk under the awning in the rain as the rest of the near world headed to their cars and respective homes. This silence between the two of us should have been awkward. And yet, we rested there comfortably for who knows how long.

In and out. In and out. I suppose if we wanted we could have measured the time by our breathing. We could have measured how long each cloud of smoke lingered before our faces. We could have measured how many breathes we breathed before the two clouds we had blown became one. But. We didn’t.

We didn’t measure anything. We didn’t measure time, or emotions, or pain. We plain and simply did not measure our actions. I stood out there with you and we smoked. Our eyes met in a way that only our eyes could meet and you said, “Things are going to change, you know.”

And I walked away an unbeliever.
Last edited by Cyclones41 at Jul 27, 2011,
Ahh i woulda called it Cherry blossom....but very nicely written thumbs up

actually scratch that upon further reflection, your title is just peachy
I really liked this man. Your writing style kind of reminded me of Henry Rollins. I loved how it's kind of constructed like a letter to someone: "One night you and I smoked cigarettes"... it's a really fresh take on a piece that isn't a poem.
It seemed to lose steam towards the end though, and it ended a bit flat. It built up quite a bit and kind of got off track in the last paragraph, and it ended relatively anticlimactic. I think you should have expanded a little bit in the second to last one...
I think with some revising, and maybe some expanding, this could be awesome. If you have time, you should click on "Are There Accidents in Heaven" in my sig
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Thanks you two! Ben, yes, I agree the ending is way flat/it got sidetracked. That actually isn't the ending to it...I could just feel myself losing time and energy that night and wanted to get up what I had. But I think I'm going to edit it soon, though, (hopefully tonight) so you should check back. I'll critique yours, too. Thanks again you two!
The first paragraph was my favorite, it definitely caught me in the piece. Nice job
Quote by Cyclones41

We didn’t measure anything. We didn’t measure time, or emotions, or pain. We plain and simply did not measure our actions.

One of the greatest lines ive read in a while.
If you have anything else written really interested in reading it.

well done really well done
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this was beautiful. the final line was stunning, it does just what you want a final line to do. those lines are the most, possibly the only important lines. i don't consider it unreasonable to spend an entire piece building up to them, and you nailed that.

i think the title places too much emphasis on the cigarettes themselves, which would be fine if they were mentioned once or there was more ambiguity as to what the two of you were doing in the rain, but the pairing of the title with the extensive discussion of smoking overwhelms the relationship which is at the heart of the thing, i think. it's not a bad title, but i don't think it sits right when you stand back and look at the thing as a whole. pick a title that can become the piece, that can take on the feeling of the thing, i'd say.

finally, the vocabulary juuust edged into the predictable sometimes, literally one or two changes would prevent that. you either need to shake around a couple of the descriptions or just go through and throw in a few rarer, more specifically relevant words to give it a kick. i won't tell you where because i think you can feel it yourself better than i could.

this was really gorgeous though. like i said, final line did it for me. i'll check out pt2
Thanks so much, Alex. I really appreciate that. And you're right about the title. I've been thinking about that a lot, actually. I think it's going to be called Crumpled Money and a Fake Phone Call and it will eventually lead into another piece of mine with that title. I'm not for sure yet though.

I'll go back in and look for some of the more predictable words/phrases. (And for the record, I appreciate that you didn't pull them all out for me.)

Thanks again!
Very good. Very poetic. I like that you didn't rhyme, because I don't either
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