Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust
My lungs are slowly blackening
With my accumulating cigarette butts
They tell me it's stupid
"Do you want to die?"
I just blow smoke in their face and say
"It may be suicide, but it makes me feel alive."
They'll wrinkle the nose at my smell
Walk away in disgust
And I'll just burn up my body
Until I return to dust

The end of your rope
Became a noose round my neck
I'll be with you soon

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.

We lived by the street lights and loved under the moon.  
We went to fast grew up to soon
We would spend our nights crazy and obscene
Fighting against the misuse of the word "teen"
Because when we grew up we knew nothing would ever be like what it seemed.

From birth to death we are constantly evolving constantly growing and weaving our selves into the lives of other people like an entanglement of stars in the night sky. But life isn't like a star or the ocean or anything else we compare it too. Life and all it's complexities cannot be compared to a single entity but rather a mosaic of the fragmented stain glass that is the human experience.

I could know any of them
in a dark room, eyes
blindfolded, hands
tied. How, you ask?

One of them smells
like fresh laundry, warm, like hugs, a tinge
of unshed tears, a safe place
to sleep. She smells like home more
than anywhere I've been, when I can catch
her smell. I have breathed this
in for so long, sometimes
it eludes me, the way I
cannot scent myself, for
an abundance of familiarity.

It feel traitorous to try
and describe how
a second smells, that
when she will never
understand, but she
smells like spontaneous gifts
of friendship, and
long sunlit days, she smells
so much of herself
I could never imagine
her differently.

Yet another scents the air
in such a way I
feel my lungs are
bloomings, and yet are somehow
contricting, like I cannot draw
enough of this air,
to breathe so deeply as
I need. He smells
of an accomplishment
hard-won, but worth
every step of the way, though
there is a hidden
bite, a concealed
sharpness, an almost imperceptible tang.

I cannot begin to think
how to explain the intriguing way
another smells, as I cannot quite
place my finger
on it. Much like
its owner, her aroma
is a woven tapestry, and so
we see the complete
product, but never
the individual
threads, a perfect
work of art.

And lastly, the one
who often seems
to have no smell
at all. Spend
some time around him, however,
teach your lungs how
to sense his
presence, and you will notice
he does not smell flashy
or bright, his smell
is constructed
of strong undertones, complimenting
and supporting
everyone else, comforting like
some people's idea
of god.

Sometimes I think
if I could have my own
particular brand of perfume
all the time, I
would be invincible.