Smoke curls,
Not from the burning cigarette in my mouth
But from the remains of the one on the plate.
One puff to eclipse the south,
I yearn, quietly, for a clean slate.
Another exhale.
My eyes dart to the pack,
And even if the cigarettes are stale,
They’re new enough to fill the crack.
Third puff.
Potency dissolves,
Even if the nicotine is just as rough,
The next one absolves.
The scent is sour.
I throw the cigarette into the garden of embers,
Sprawled with the rest like a wildflower.
Water drowns Eden, leaving it sunless.
The next cigarette is ready to fire.
Before I reach for it,
I say a prayer that it fills my desire,
already knowing the answer it gives,
Then take the next hit.
And so it will continue,
Until the pack has nothing left,
Until there’s nothing to renew,
Until my fingers turn to ash,
and find their place in it.
Flirting in Space 
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