I�m Hesitant to Write Another Poem About Cigarettes, and to Address it to You

 

We’re characters in film noir

as we sit smoking cigarettes,

one after another.

 

It hurts too much to look down

at the odd collection of stark

white figures littering the tar,

remnants of what we meant.

 

So we stare at our fingers instead,

stiff and turning blue

or take long sideways glances to

fill the space between shaking breaths.

 

Our cold late-night shadows

tend to give us away

for what we are—

gentle pretenders, disguised criminals.

 

It’s not that I don’t love you—

it’s just that of all the moments

in all the years in all my life,

you walk in now.

 

So please accept these tokens

of my dearest affection,

and wait for me.