Burn
The dying end
of your cigarette
was glowing in the car
that night
while we drove. It is
what I remember
from you.
The last time you
touched me
still lingers
like the smoke.
The air smelled
like oranges
on fire;
the cigarettes you bought
were wrapped in paper
inside a black plastic box.
The expensive, flavored kind.
I coughed
when I lit one for you
and inhaled;
I shouldn�t have.
The smoke
tore into my lungs.
You smiled
and called me baby,
with your hand
between
my shoulder blades.
I smiled too,
after catching
my breath.
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