She asked for a
cigarette on her deathbed,
An Addiction to her Death Sentence;
Her Lovely Laugh
clouded by ash
cremated into ash,
Scintillating dialogue on her city
veranda, dark nights where
the only visible pinprick of light
was the bright orange tang of
tobacco
I don’t smoke, but it’s a ghostly comfort;
the bitter stench of city
and sewers
and smoke
wrapping me lovingly in
layers of filth
Lightwood 