Cigarette Love Letter

Call it chemical,
ashtray amour,
candlelight by coil.

The mist feels rosy
on that lonely face,
and really,

poison never looked
so much like love.

It’s enough
just to breathe:
to wither,

forestalled like
still warming embers
in discarded ash.

Touched to those lips,
love is wounded:
free to bleed,

to erase, to wander–
held to a moment
that must end

in a heart
blown to smoke.

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