Habits

My lungs are black but my heart is pure My hair is thin and falling out in the wrong places At this point my days to live are measured with an hour glass The size of the smallest taxa My memory is a bank of a hundred and one bad choices Two thirds look like a previous poem I wrote, one which I used a cigar to craft the smoke that is to swallow my alveoli whole I am using one as I write this, and I’ll probably smoke another one after I’m done These are the habits I have The habits I adopted from the apple that fell far from the tree, The forbidden fruit.