Too uncertain in our steps to purge the last cigarette.
Inhale—flick.
Too wide to try to decode our
decomposition
Putter; exhale—puff.
Drags and lags.
It chokes you, gags you, damns you
without perception
Tattered on torrid edges,
Unwoven at the hem.
Chosen, skimmed,
flicked to the dirt.
Born to end, but not.
Because smoke lingers.
It gets swept up in a succession
of forgotten exchanges—
clinging to unforgettable nights of star-filled skies,
in flower beds lined of desire where we lied.
When I memorized ropes of the forbidden,
And acted on your rhythm.
Each crease etched into my veins,
Flowing out bittersweet—threatening
To deteriorate from the palm of precision.
Padded by the idea of infinite longing,
I became swept away in a steadfast drive
of unclaimed territory,
Instant nose dive.
Ruled by the conception
of how to perceive the idea
Of understanding.
But you redirected your composition,
acting on an impulse found in infrequent pulses,
forgetting the phrases
that tied us by our hollowed messes.
Here, but not, you found a motive to discard—redirecting
the idea of love into another disposition—colorblind.
But I learned grace was not a pardon sanctified by fear,
as you casted your bud to the side
and lost the sight of fair skies.
And through swelling eyes I found smoke lingers. Even when the source is gone,
It remains. Unable to budge. Hot and thick- flickering glimpses
of gray lines. A double-edged idea,
of exiting out the back door by gusts of goodbyes,
and craving of addiction, skidding down into irreversible impulses.
Haunting. Remissive. Tenuous. You stay, pretending to be solid—whole. But not.
Because you’re nothing more than smoke. Not here—only lingering beneath my skin