Smokedate

by Omar Azam

The mirror holds
5 lamps,

but I can see
no reflection,

only the smell
of
sick
aged
tobacco
smoke.

*

1:15.
I wait,
writing, bored
brooding for the nightclub
to close.

The crowd
hasn't come,
it's only gotten quieter,
the music has stopped.

The crowd
never came,
only the music remained,
the sound of a party
with no human company.

*

O! To suck, to hold
between the lips
rolled paper and a light
creating rings and patterns
of hazy blue.

To take deep
the burning,
slow burning of your soul.

To take the life
of a rod
one breath at a time,

as it tolerates
sits idly by,
in fact helps

and takes
your life
in turn.

As the red
turns orange
turns brown

as the wafer
watches itself
fade to black

the smell of
burnt flesh replaces
sweet living blue.