Creative Writing: Friday Night on the Roundabout in Flegg Park

I rip card from a Rizla packet,
My fingers cold and slow.
I stuff the baccy into my jacket
Before I continue to roll.
You sit there in an oversized coat;
I wear hand-me-up shoes.
Yours passed down from a brother grown old;
Mine from a sister who grew.
Your Egyptian eyes form Chelsea smiles
As you close your lids and inhale.
Thin fingers hold the red dot of light
That droops between chipped polished nails.
Your lipstick print forms a ring round the toke;
I taste you in the bitter-sweet smoke.