You are every cigarette
that perched on my lips
one after another.
Every sharp tip is a word
giving breath to flowers,
waters that ebb and flow.
Purple and blue skies
Making way
For orange and yellow.
Oh we are fire
imprisoned
by films of ash that won't let go.
Pulsating, fluttering,
seemingly awaiting
a consummation
brief, yet glorious.
We could have been stars
exploding to constellations,
galaxies, universes with gravity
that pulls even Time
to a great stand still.
That day too,
cigarettes died
in your hands
one after the other.
On the floor
they lay
heaving,
sluggishly expiring,
feeling themselves withering.
Until crushed by a foot
Into nothing.
3:04
18/5/15
When my cigarettes were anthropomorphic.
