The Last Cigarette (A Conversation)

You are the last, I tell this cigarette,
so I obviously love you more than any of the others.
A lie, I know, but the cigarette believes
and glows happily. Where can I turn to for
the quick intake of happiness if not to her?
Now she will happily satisfy me despite my lies—
to her and to myself.

She doesn’t care what makes her special
as long as I use her and she believes she is.
I can breathe in everything she gives to me
even though it destroys us both
slowly and without mercy.
Our timeless affair leaves short puffs
of our exhaust through the night.
Does she realize that our time together
is almost done?

I can see her perfect presence erasing itself
as she burns on for me.
I have almost completely destroyed her,
the ashes of an ending relationship
scattering themselves across the yard
as a cold wind announces our final kiss.
One final kiss before we each turn in for the night;
she lying motionless and I fulfilled.

I breathe in her wicked scent and as I walk away
I still taste her in my mouth.
Her bittersweet memory asks
like a contented sigh in my ear
who will take her place.
Who will be left to filter the world into me?
Her memory wants to know what I could ever find
to replace her and everything she ever gave to me.
The pain, the joy, the heartbreak
and the feeling of satisfaction,
all this I have found in a single cigarette
burning down slowly between my fingers and lips.

I assure her, as I walk away from a smoldering love
stamped out and stepped on, that she has been the last,
that none will compete with her ignited memory.
Our love is lost, our love will not be relit.
Perhaps, then, just one more.
She will never know.