Where There's Smoke
Smoking is a dirty habit
that I haven't done
in 15 years or more
(maybe here and there,
on a whim,
outside a bar,
when the night and
the neon glow and
the delirious buzz
beneath my skin
imparted the
vague plastic
sheen of a dream).
But tonight the
dark is too real,
the day too near;
and here I am,
floating somewhere
in between,
in a desperation
I recognize:
familiar, if estranged.
A longing to feel
Something, even if
only the dark burn
of tar in my lungs,
the slight twinge
of perversion (oh,
sweet self-destruction).
To conjure illusions
of danger,
of power.
Don't you know?
I am a cautionary tale.
I am a myth.
A wild creature,
breathing fire.
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