You suck in smoke
like something
beautiful is trapped
and then released.
I want that part of you.
I want the tobacco kiss
that stirs yellow roses
and hot stones.
You take my face
and from your lips.
I take the taste
and love you for it.
So this is why I feel sick,
seeing you disappear
into a clinical box,
made only for the
purpose of placing
nicotine in your veins.
Stark and white:
it is the sterile
waiting room
where frightened
lovers sit.
Photo by Kam Pratt
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