I strike a match, and you are lit.
The cherry red smoldering works its way up,
slowly burning you away.
Your smoke is everywhere at first.
Swirling out of the cobalt-blue bottle
Spreading like vines on a wall.
White and gray: millions of shapes
Swirling around me.
A serpent, a flower,
A dragon, a ghost,
No two alike
And they smell of vanilla and sandalwood.
I sometime wonder, do you do it on purpose?
have you got a will of your own?
As you dwindle away, the smoke lessens,
until only one twisting white rope remains.
And then you are gone.
But the intoxicating smell remains.
Vanilla and sandalwood.