Halcyon

last cigarette

it should've been the last,
like we always swear,
but it never ends with
one last time.
so, here we are again,
at the edge of confession,
the ember quavering
from the ash-tipped cigar.

whether we go up in smoke,
or down in flames,
we don't know just yet.
all we know is that,
we swear, again and again,
that this'll be the last time,
but it is not.

we breathe out silver spirals,
and let the nicotine ghosts cling.
our motel becomes our ashtray,
and our shared graveyard.
the flame from the vintage
lighter hesitated, but we did not.
we were bold, brave, and dangerously addictive,
so why fight the self-inflicted curse?

one last drag before dawn,
we swore we'd quit,
but we were just honest liars
with soot-soft secrets.
the smoke breaks are the only
kind of time travel we believe in.

we kept lighting ghosts,
hoping one would be the other,
but where there is smoke, there is fire,
so we might as well
just pick up that damn pipe
and smoke it.

we kept blowing smoke,
came to cigar, but not close.
we are moths who memorised the burns,
knowing we set ablaze
the candle at both ends.
we should have gone by the age-old saying,
never play with fire.
but when poison becomes something
we crave,
who cares if we end in ash?

every time we end, we spark again,
two flints pretending not to know.
our respect and love exhales by itself;
and when we ignite ourselves again,
we blame the same matchstick
that lit us in the first place.
we know the smoke will choke us,
but clandestine cigars are addictive
when emotions are imprisoned in place.

every goodbye feels like the last puff,
but it never is,
because it never is.
we light up like an effortless habit,
destined to be the flame and inhale.
we consume each other by mere design,
yet reprimand the fire that knew our names.
we burn, we end, we start yet again
because it is a ritual
we refuse to end.