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
