Robynne Yokota/ Ghost Cigarette


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 


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

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