you used to come over wearing my favorite scent
that black bottle of jean paul gaultier you had
a quiet gesture, maybe the only hint
that you might have cared

it wrapped around me, got under my skin
soaked into my sheets like you belonged there
even after you left, i could still feel you all day
your scent softly flowing everywhere
  
i would sleep as if i were holding you
hugging the traces of you left on my blanket
until one night, you lie down beside me again
if i would ever cross your mind by chance

somehow your smell disappeared day by day
replaced by vanilla-scented cigars instead
leaving me nothing to hold on when you are gone
except the ashes of you lying by my bed

Life is strange
It can burn at both ends
Tho they never know
Until the two ends meet
And they meet their end.

I went past a lady
Smoking on a landing

Her coarse black hair
She smoked a cigar
Without regard

For only a moment
I saw her

Sitting there
in a chair
With mystery and perplexity

It was cloudy today
No sun shine
To brighten her time

She left me
Speechless

As I noticed
Her blackened eyes
From restless nights

I went past a lady
Smoking on a landing...

For one month, I've been smoke free.
31 days ago, I put smoking behind me.
God and the nicotine patches have helped me to quit and I'm grateful.
And without those patches, the nicotine withdrawal would've made me become hateful.
But I'm no longer using the patches and I think I have the problem licked.
I've been smoke free for a month and I think that I'm no longer an addict.
Let me tell other smokers something that's true.
I was able to kick the habit and so can you.

The half broken mirror kept
in the forgotten corner of
my house
tells me stories of a man.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
smoking his favorite cigars
until his ashtray was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
weeping tears of tar
until his heart was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
telling stories of strange lands
until his eyes were full.
The half broken mirror tells me
the man would look at
the mirror for hours
reciting the name of a woman
until his soul was full.
The half broken mirror tells me
that it would often
see itself in the man.

Your father was raised in Panama. I can imagine him vividly... The floral silk shirt with velvety red cravat, tan leather loafers, waxed-to-perfection moustache, and a big cigar. It was the late sixties and he was beautiful. I've never seen a photo but I can tell by the way you talked about him. His joi de vivre oozed into your stories and I recognized it: the distilled essence of his elegance was passed to you, and you shared it with me.

We met by our mutual attraction for showing off... I wanted to be treated like a delicate porcelain treasure - you wanted a plastic toy with the price tag of an heirloom. Twenty five years my senior and you still hadn't learned your lesson about girls like me... I may have broken your heart, but you should've known a tryst between the free-spirited edge of seventeen and a businessman with dreams of Panama would burn out in the end, just like your father's cigar.

I smoke like cancer because I can.
Because I will not stop.
I enjoy it, my voice deepens like rougehage being swayed and stepped on. They will bury me.

My cigar smoke rolls into the
tranquil night sky,
tumbling through the constellations,
forming a nebula from my breath.
The glow from the cigar
lights up a little corner of the cosmos,
burning a hole in the universe-
a small escape for my pains,
because sorrow can't float to the stars-
light years away,
like the feeling of spirit,
separated from my celestial body.

Swish Swoosh Swisher Sound
Cold Draw. Smoke Bomb. Blasted Fans
Drew Estate Acquired