I want to know the method, the character of her breath,
the manufacturing of her lungs, how words blend with
her artful smoke. The most valuable pricetag in a packet
of sugarcane wrapped atmosphere staining her outline,
inside out.

Her mouth running, that smell of a running car dashing
around the corner, as if fueled by Marlboro kisses,
dragging each exhale out with another Camel choking
in her throat.

Used to the pull, the position of the cigarette, idle
and kindling between middle and forefinger, while
coughing subsided long ago. Each breath cremated as the
color of coins casually claims her features.
Her husband Winston lit on fire, expendable.
No form of tonic washed down lungs loosely clinging
to the pure air outside will remove the corruption.
Shamelessly in a beautiful addiction, she mumbled,
And my personality not a bit diminished.
Her lips shaped like rugged canyonface, glazed with
weathering, a Marlboro to her pursed lips,
puffing out the littered wind of the world.
Her teeth the door, the cigarette the conduit
for her inflicted ashes to spew,
convert to oxygen, a pack a day.