Uncategorized

The Habit

In a church yard, it started.

A friend, well acquainted with the breath of

adults, told you, you could have one.

Could inhale the little fire you were taught to fear.

 

You did not cough.

A cough would have revealed you as one

who dabbles in playthings, who could

be turned away, simply, by the vestiges of play.

 

It tasted harsh and hot

and as the thin cloud exited your mouth

your body went limp

dizzy falling dizzy

and you did not think that Earth could feel

this light.

 

Then time came.

And passed.

Time came and passed you into expensive

little red and white boxes. You

transitioned into a church yard of your own

with no figures to mark holy.

 

The night is considerably smaller now

extending the length of a tiled verandah

and behind the frame of a man walking

up the street, his hands trying to burrow

past the machine stitched seams of pants pockets.

 

The night is broken into breaks

of tip-toeing out and hoping not to be seen.

The stick you pull to your mouth is ladened

with lies —

straight eyed ‘no’s’

looking away from the woman behind the register

who attempts to hand you the receipt.

 

No, the paper will not be your undoing,

but you imagine it away anyway.

 

This smoke does not taste good;

has never tasted good

has never blinded loss into function.

It leaves you chasing the night, though —

a night that recedes into nothing when you leave it.

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