French Cigarettes

The taste of tobacco

Lingers around my lips

And the ash covers my fingers

Like a half-drunk, sad man

Sitting by the counter of a dimly lit bar,

It refuses to go away

The burning paper stares at me

Fiery eyes insisting that I spill

All the hurt painted on my lungs

But even if I burn my life away

With cigarettes and poetry

The garden your fingers left behind

When they ran amok on my skin

Won't wither away

They refuse to leave. 

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