Smoke with the Stars

The blood and cigarettes linger on my lips,
the ash and rusted red sultry in my throat.
The wind raises goosebumps on my exposed arms,
the only one to caress my skin in far too long.
Cough and shudder, shiver and sputter,
hold me for a little while longer.
The filter is in my mouth and the cold is on my flesh,
while the ash grows longer with the shadows.
Cherry chocolate smoke settles in my lungs,
hastily blown out before the burn becomes too much.
One after another, my hands begin to smell
of fragrant discontent and solemn regret.

Insecurity lurks behind my tongue,
an affliction that keeps me vain and weak.
The taste of camel lights and fire keep me awake,
suave and beautiful with my fingers to my lips.
Jittery and alive with blackened lungs,
darkened sidewalks and lawns become my sanctuary.
Midnight then two then four, embers burning in the night
are leading me down these homely streets.
Bumming a light from the streetlamps,
stealing a gait from cracks in the pavement,
I wander till the bleeding dawn leads me home,
smelling like warmth and youth and stars.