Until dawn,
a cigarette ash
flew into her right eye

The cigarette remained alight
despite the flood of tears
streaming down her cheeks  

With such a hell
blazing inside her,
she put out fire with smoke

Solitude was her
only consolation,
and all she longed for

There is not a soul
that she yearns for,
but for hers to burn out

sober decisions
no proper thought

sweet amber lights
deathly black ash

nicotine rush
the world is spinning

a fleeting high
a wave of dizziness

missed calls
unanswered messages

an innate desire to self destruct
an unconscious want to be appreciated

low blows and insecurities
anger unexpressed

a dangerous game in wet pavements
under orange lights and judging eyes

3 sticks consumed quickly
no regrets; but a thousand sorrows

you were like cigarette smoke
i breathed you in
and blew you out
and in your wake
you left a feeling like no other
as you made it harder to breathe
as my lungs turned black
and my cells died

there’s beauty in pleasant destruction

The face
That says it all
But gives nothing,
That went to hell,
But didn’t come back,
Knows all languages
But speaks none,
Traveled all depths -
Not once in motion,
Sees right through you
But needs no eyes.

Puffing and puffing
The cigarette is delighted,
Youth burnt off
The face.

the way the sun hits
warming up my soul
ashes floating down pass my feet

your lips are like that
first breath in
fresh first fleeting
hit from that first cigarette
wishing you were my first
knowing you can’t be my last

the smell of new pavement
streets after a rain
feeling cool and warm
hot and cold
dizzy
raindrops on my skin
as welcome and unexpected
as your waning grin
as shocking
as the first time you kissed me

hands on my skin
my skin
my skin

Cinnamon
winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
Isn't it?
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.

Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.