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You suck in smoke

like something

beautiful is trapped

and then released.

I want that part of you.

I want the tobacco kiss

that stirs yellow roses

and hot stones.

You take my face

and from your lips.

I take the taste

and love you for it.

So this is why I feel sick,

seeing you disappear

into a clinical box,

made only for the

purpose of placing

nicotine in your veins.

Stark and white:

it is the sterile

waiting room

where frightened

lovers sit.

Photo by Kam Pratt

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