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.