What do I look like through the smoke?
I, in my naiveté, believe that you cannot see me at all.
As if the smoke from this cigarette was enough to shield the real me, and create a mirage for you to fall in love with.
If this was not the case, I wonder if women (or men) would bother to smoke?
If it was not taking you from what you are to what you want to pretend to be, would you create that curtain around you?
Maybe, without the smoke, you won’t think I’m as bright or as pretty as you thought I was. But then, no one ever is, which is why it always feels okay to spend on alcohol and such vices. (I’m paraphrasing this line from Fry and giving due credit, though I hardly think he will care.)
But honestly, I wonder, if you saw me, without the smoke, or without the excuse of alcohol, or without the anonymity in a DM or a message, would you still be so fascinated?
And this is the moment when the writer in me is suspended, and all I have is a tragic longing for you to say yes.
I might have the words, and they look really nice on paper (Let me be immodest and say they look damn good), but I’m a woman in myself. I don’t always have the answers down pat, and it is easier for me to be formidable in word than in deed, but this is when I wish you would say that you love me, and not my words.
Can you? Love me, without my words?