No good at it...

I can’t roll cigarettes very well.
My hands get too moist from nerves of light splintering and sparking in my mental space.
It’s distracting the hue is strong and it crowds me.
Don’t get the wrong impression; they’re not clammy, just sensitive.
It takes me by surprise; I never remember the way things are;
it took me a long time to remember that a kiss is soft.
Lips are not a hard surface.

Perhaps I have found myself in tune with the earth
with the shaking of a civilisation yet to come
their fists flagging within me a reminder of,
POTENTIAL.

So, I thought about my crumpled paper, post roll when you smiled the other night.
It’s noticeable now you’re getting on,
wrinkles
fine ripples like the ones between my sweaty fingers, sittting just above the cheek bone accentuated by
The Grin. The genius invention,
the mouth is my souvenir of humanity.
They are not lines fit for a piece of origami. Although I am rather fond of the way they fan in a semi circle.

So, the other night you stared and I shook.
You’re a pretty straight shooter.
You don't have pending history beneath you, rather you wear it in its tattered glory
leather splitting at the sides.
God damn I want a steady hand,
If I had a cigarette I’d have something to do, as it seems, we don’t really have much to talk about. You're lucky pal...that age often equals character. I've got nothing on you...no specfics to dirty the lens.
What is the internal civilisation trying to tell me?

Is there something interesting happening between you and me?