My dying love

I watched her with deep interest as she slowly took another drag off her cigarette. Id watch her quite often. She would stop in the middle of our long discussions to think over what she was about to say or to smoke her cigarette.
My cigarette hung between my lips. It stayed there, bobbing as I talked.
She leaned her head back, looking around the room. Taking it all in as though she had never seen it before. I layed back on her bed and waited for her to talk. She spoke of femminism and politics. Her voice rough and smoky. I hung on her every word. I rolled over on my side and watched her. She lit another cigarette and looked at me. She asked me what I thought.
I thought she was beautiful. So I told her.
Her eyes burned into me. Her lips parted. She looked pleased. She rose off her spot on the floor and walked over to me. I tried not to let my eyes wonder over her, but I couldnt help it. She stepped in front of me and I sat up. She slapped me across the face. Her eyes burning harder.
I replayed that over and over in my head as I threw the last shovel full of dirt onto the pile. I wiped blood onto my ragged jeans, and sat down on the grave to lite another cigarette.