I used to hate the taste of cigarettes,
That took away the sweetness of your breath,
when the choice to kiss them or smoke me,
was pulled out of its box for the umpteenth time.
It was a battle I was bound to lose.
So, I grew jealous of the way you had all the time
For the guilty pleasure that sliced away at ours
In ways I never would.
In the same ashen breath that you two shared,
you, or maybe it, would speak of your interim.
No more than a fleeting kiss you promised would end,
if I so much as wished it, like I had so dearly in the past.
I was your favorite of all who you smoked.
The taste of blindsided love, and maybe cherry,
Coated your tongue with words
That kept me addicted.
But the temporary joy was me all along.
My pack ran dry.
no flame to be lit,
or high to be had.
But what’s a favorite pack of cigarettes
To a man who’s hooked on any
That will let him smoke them
For even an instant.
But now, the spirit left in ruin
Breathes in the smoke of the cigarette
he stole from your new,
favorite pack--
And convinces himself that he loves
the taste of ash and filth
he smothers with memories
of what it was like with you.
