His cigarettes have spread their legs in the corner of my room,
scared to move. This is where I threw them. Yesterday,
in a jubilantly juvenile fit of frustration, I stamped on them
with the apathy of a carnivore. I hope he felt it.
They crunched and wheezed beneath my feet.
I hope that, somewhere out there,
the bastard lost his breath. Just one of them.
He has thousands of them anyway.
We are whores for air. I’d like to find that balance:
to inhale someone as much as I exhale myself.
In the meantime, I use cigarettes, blowing
slow, supple smoke rings into the empty sky.