When You Smoke Cigarettes (ii)
Ashy fingers crumble from my arm
over your body. We don't touch or combine.
An inhale exhale existence. The smoke is the cigarettes thoughts,
and my mind, smoke, dissipates as you walk through it.
You stir the dusty bones collecting on the panes of my soul.
my body, arthritic and old, begins fading into smoke ring
bruises, circular, burned sores. And she is an ember, a single,
bloodshot eye,
a lifelong memory I can't exhale.
W. K. Medlen
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