the jittering of joints at high speed and under the pressure of gravity made the perfect backdrop to the half melody tangling us up

the music of my love, his voice quietly mimics songs he could have written for me if he had got there first

but I prefer the music he did write for me
I prefer it more than any Frank Ocean or James Brown

cute thing, hot thing,  
sweet words, sure

but I prefer the words
of my everything

Puff, puff,
inhale,
the need,
of their cigarette,
hands.

The incomplete feeling,
of not having,
the freedom,
each huff,
gives.

The tips,
of their fingers,
itches,
just for one,
hit.

Breathe,
the smoke,
into their,
lungs.

Kiss,
the filter,
as if it's a lovers,
tongue,
tracing,
each line on their lips,
savoring its taste.

Lifting their heads,
slightly high,
as they blow,
the waves,
to the sky.

Thinking deeply,
and releasing,
stressing less,
the craving,
of their addiction,
under control.

The tingles,
within their nerves,
cools,
settles,
hinged.

Until the beacon,
of its poison,
calls again.

Sincerely,
a servant

a little bird told me
to stop smoking so much

a little bird told me
to get better

a little bird told me
that I am loved

I told the little bird
to mind her own **** business