I am caught

From the moment the sun is set ablaze

And the twilight skies blush pastel

The smell is unmistakable,

As smoke dissipates through frigid air

We burn passionately,

Smoldering slowly in each other’s arms,

Casually taking drags of each other’s fragrance.

Addicted to the taste of her filtered breath,

I hold her gently between my fingers.

She’s an American Spirit,

Smooth, old-fashioned kind of love,

Every gasp of her essence intoxicating,

Each sip inducing a feeling I’ve never felt before.

 

Yet she’s no good for me.

 

We inhale deeper now.

Smoke gathers until we can longer see each other’s face,

She no longer lifts me to her lips for affection,

But necessity.

No longer passion

But need.

Ashes of our former selves,

A product of our soul’s substance that

We’ve burned to create this feeling.

I lay extinguished,

No longer of any use butt

To fill ashtrays,

The Necropolis of infatuated pasts.

 

Time to find another pack.