Friday, January 21, 2011

Craving (1/13/11)

I want to taste you.
I’ll put up with second hand smoke
to let my tongue sample
your cold,
nicotine tinged,

Grasping your hand,
up to my nose,
like how my Grandmother licks her plate
for the last tiniest bit of flavor,
to smell the tips
of your fingers,
still lingering with the ghosts
of your Camel cigarettes,
which have seeped
their characteristics upon you
after years of repetition.

But even I have levels I won't stoop,
like accompanying you
outside in bad weather
when your habit is prohibited,
(you’re on your own)
or sharing in a drag,
as to not get too accustomed
to associating vice
with pleasure.

So while you're refining
your motor skills,
that graceful grip,
the rise and fall
of the last one before bed,
I inhale deeply
to get a whiff of that spot
in the middle of your chest,
marked by a school-boy tuft of hair,
substituting you as a pillow
since extra ones are sparse,
filling my lungs
with the aroma
of the essence of you,
and no tobacco could be as satisfying,
or as sweet.

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