[Smoking stale cigarettes]
By Nici
Smoking stale cigarettes Whiskey glass empty. Dead, silent air "Have you heard from him lately?" His name echos in my memory How my age now stands before me. There he is Sitting in his black velvet chair Speaking no words It is as if he is still here. His hair wet with sweat White towel across his back Flaming red carpet And burning incense. Pale skin and bruised veins No sympathy for the pure I knew this ecstasy Was something I could not endure. I am rudely awakened by my long time friend. I ask for another glass This time of Gin. "Where's my drink?" Slowly we progress. The glasses are filled There is not end to this. He still lingers like fragrant sex Now of death and cheap incense. Nodded my head sat back and cried. Finished my cigarette lay down to die. Written October 6th, 2001 © on Oct 06 2001 12:14 PM PST 10 • 0 • 16
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"Smoking stale cigarettes..."