Burning slowly and emitting a smoke that waltzes with my imagination, hypnotising, rising.
Curling swirling, beautiful misty twisting.
Silent cigarette. Burning slowly a mixture of tobaccos, enwrapped in a delicate skin of fine paper -
Held tightly in its length by gum, and the memory of the stroke, from my loving tongue.
Decreasing in length,
Increasing in strength,
As I draw.
The deadly and the tasty marry my lungs,
Soft and warm and doing me harm... wonderful, making me younger than young.
Smoke now streams from my nostrils as if escaping,
Feeling guilty of raping my lungs,
And rising ash invades my eye,
Bringing it to water - creating a tear, more or less,
As though it were suggesting I should cry,
For the endless friendship between us, or the decaying in my chest.
Gently I tap the little cigarette, and ashes drop,
Into a small mound of memories occupying the ornate but cheap glass ashtray.
Growing little pile of dead paper, dead wood, dead ash.
A dull construction, little cigarettes as the architects, for this necropolis black and gray.
Coming to an end. Outliving your usefulness,
I pull at you hard for the last taste before I stop the burning, cut the smoke.
Pressing you into the mound to die and join the others,
I thank you for your pleasure. My lips are dry so I make them wet.
No more smoke, no more burning for now.