It is not long, not long now;
it somehow drags, deep, drag on a cigarette.
Vapour intoxicates your unblemished lungs and fills them.
Within it swells,
your head is light and there is fire in your stained, sickly fingers,
it sticks and dwells. Face turning fallow,
ailing daffodils late in spring.
Your fingers, your wallpaper, your lungs.
You knew that you had seen them close as you rested your un-weary head.
Your hairs singe, curling as they burn,
the surface falls apart,
ochre sun surges, yet the night air is held inside the smoke,
smoke cooling as air bites at its tentacles.
Jaundiced morning bleeds through.