You smoked my company to the filter
and afterwards
choked tar from your lungs-
more like cancer than me.
Diminished in paper skin,
I was no less bitter-
I left your chest coagulating;
reminding me of embolisms
I pictured your heart stopping.
perhaps because ganglia
were thrown into my shape,
or perhaps in spite;
you refused cravings,
each neuroceptor evicting
for less poisonous tenants-
I drove you to the ashtray.
I found menthol embers in your garden,
wondered if you'd always preferred the taste






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