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Cigarette Smoke

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I wanted Virginia slims, because it smelled like cotton bathrobes and laundry rooms with yellow drenched photos taped on the wallpaper,
I wanted Virginia slims, because maybe in the unfurling smoke I could catch her image, and find another memory that maybe would create some clarity,
I didn’t find any clarity, a beacon of light, at night when the smoke tossed around in the chill,
He bought Marlboro reds; he described them as a “classic”,
And inside I quipped “A classic way to die”,
The lighter was cheap and it was almost out of fluid, but the end glowed an enticing red just the same,
One deep inhale and my lungs were set on fire, parched, and devirginized, then with an exhale, It was gone, my slate wiped clean,
My filth lingered in the air then traveled away, hitching a ride on bruised, clumsy clouds,
Our, bruised, clumsy knees knocked together, and I wanted to curl up into a child like shell, although I knew I wouldn’t remain that way, The shell would break and crumble past my shoulders,
The ashes collected at the end, and I flicked it off with the thumb, scattering throughout the inky grass, still smoldering,
Smoking cigarettes is like playing dress up, in your mothers shoes and floppy sunhat, lets pretend we are adults,
Lets show them,
Lets for a moment pretend we are anarchists and paint the world the a new color and shift the continents until we can leap from ocean to ocean,
We might die tomorrow, and be locked up in a wooden box, a whole new type of prison, our decaying vessels protected from the soil,
So lets die on our own terms,
We sat on the hill and talked about how funny it is to be anything.




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