My head turns into a pile of ash
until your fingers flick me.
Smoke billows out—
curling in spirals toward the sky.

You light me up,
place me where you keep your lies—
between your lips,
sometimes held by teeth.

I burn slow for you,
but not fast enough
to chase away the pain
you’re trying to distract from.
Don’t blame me.
I was made to disappear.

Just like the things you tried
to hold onto,
but instead, cling onto me—
and I, too, eventually leave.

But parts of me linger.
A nicotine ghost on your tongue,
haunting your attempts to quit me.

I’m just a cigarette, though...
What do I know?

Grey curl of smoke leaves my mouth,
Ashes scrape my throat.
I won´t play it wrong-
Trying to appear strong.

There´s no fire-
Just  the path to end this.
Gladly, I´d be your player,
Between us, fire burns.

Smoke would hiss.
It started-
With lit cigarette.

The cigarette burns, I watch it fade,
Like the smoke that loops, like the love we made.
Infinity twists in the cold night air,
Mocking the "forever" that led me here.

She’s gone, but I still wear her ghost,
Clinging in nicotine, stitched in my sleeves.
The scent of goodbye lingers the most—
Smoke stains stay, but she had to leave.

Smoke across knuckles
You are my private delight
I will breathe you deep

she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing at her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.

the mists have returned
to this ancient wood
what a time to light up
a cigarette or two
and pretend like nothing's changed
and nothing ever changes
make myself believe
that on the filter i don't taste her lips
and in the mist her eyes
glancing back and forth
her lips around my cigarette
her eyes around my secret sorrow
and my body
and everything i ever was
in the woods i am collapsing
my body twitches
and i decompose
the nicotine has done me in
i swear it was the nicotine
i swear

my ol' hobby
smoking you in
harming my kin
takin the pill
going in all out for the ****

you're white and yellow
sore and mellow
you give out gray
you're my demise they say
make me gay

you make my lungs hurt
but smoking you in makes me feel like kurt
holding the guitar
smoking a cigarette

I see a cigarette
It's almost disappointing how many times
my poetry turns into prose at the mention
of a cigarette

because they represent everything I long for
in the wrong ways
and they taste so good
but they're not something I would die for

instead they remain in the past
or the present or in the **** presence that rings
softly in my ears begging me to come back
to quietly but swiftly move past