-blue bic pen.

he smokes the crumbling ashes of withered leaves
through slender pipes of ivory paper
guess he's doing it to be different
not the same cause
his smoke puffs beautifully through the
toxic air in intricate dedications to my heart
unlike those who attempt to corrode their wheezing lungs
with hopes and wishes of serenity

I guess that's why I'm drawn
in sketchy lines of ball point ink with blotches
for eyes so that I may never fully see
his flaws for what they are but only steely orbs and striking mist
steaming upward from his curled lips
boring welts along my forehead with espresso eyes
not willing to meet my own long enough
to burn them out completely.