By Philip Clark

 

My Cigarette

She was my cigarette.

With each deathly breath

She stole from me,

I gasped for more

As her ashes burned

Into my heart and lungs

And finger tips. I still sense

Her smell, lingering.

 

I heard her light put out.

But she still burns.

Still stains. Still.

Her own breath caused

Her death.

Her ash is mixed

With tears and dirt amongst

The rose gardens.

 

She was my last cigarette.

 

My wife found me

In the dark.

And her mind awoke me.

Each thought of hers

Inspired my scarred heart

To breathe, again.

Forget the then.

And be

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