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 

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

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