A poem about Ashes

Ashes (or smoking makes you look cool)

Worn fingers casually dress you.

Head to toe, white fabric clings yet

dark tendrils still peak through

searching out bad habits.

He moves you closer; like a thrill

it catches you and lights you up.

Hands steady, he breathes you in and

you smolder till it burns.

In these moments you both know trust and

thoughts of stopping briefly quit. But,

once spent, you’re casually discarded

and, with your fragrance heavy in the air,

he moves on to craft another.

Brightness dims to powder grey,

you’re ashes trodden under foot.

you’re dirty. You fall, used.

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