Time paused that night, the moonlight gently glistened on the water. His eyes fixated on her reflection, the wind kissed his cheek and chilled him leaving him with that lingering shivering that continued to spread across his body causing him to find another cigarette. Placing it softly between his lips, the warmth from his lighter was welcomed to his shaking hands, the flickering flame caused his pupils to restrict and blink firmly before turning back to the water. His heart felt heavy; for everything and nothing - the reasons were in the thousands and none. The ache deepened with every toke he took of that damn cigarette, the warm smoke filled his chest to leave a niggling burn in his throat. The air became still, his mind continued to wander. She was disapproving of his smoking; she didn't understand why he did it. It was just being self-destructive, he was hurting himself and it was largely pointless. Of course, he knew this. But what if he wanted this to be his form of self-destruction? That he had some control over what hurt him rather than placing that into the hands of another? An elaborate form of self-preservation and defence that would remain there for a while longer. The cigarette ash became caught in the wind and pulled across in front of him, becoming nothing more than a speck in the sky and a whisper in the city.
Much like the wind, the paths his mind tended to follow at night were undisciplined. Thoughts were often caught in the pollution of the city, masking the clear skies; deflecting the light from the moon and stars that tried to shine down upon him. The mist becoming heavier, falling around him, clouding the field of vision further as he remained still juxtaposed against the glistening river. Indulging further, the thoughts continued to be lost, leading him thorough odd alleyways, badly lit street corners with few sounds. His heart continued to hang heavy in his tightening chest, it couldn't understand or comprehend which direction to take, it continued to ache and pour itself out to anything and anyone who showed affection.
Her touch was electric; it became almost addictive and he didn't know if it was genuine. He wondered if his heart conjured up this feeling in order to begin to truly feel again. He wondered if anything he felt towards her was real. The power of the heart and mind to create artificial emotion isn't surprising, just a shame. He wanted to feel, yet, he genuinely was lost on this; her. The cigarette butt dropped to the concrete beside him; his eyes still fixated on the slowly moving water. He remained there for another hour or two before giving into the cold and returning home with a mind racing…
Chasing what could have been,
Chasing what could be,
And chasing her.