One breath, two breaths, you stop; 
Stop to try and breathe again.
Your body only pilots itself so far,
Until it collapses.
Your lungs; a working machine,
All rusted and shriveled,
Black not from shielding by the flesh,
But by the filth, the tar.
Your lungs don't work for a lucid breath,
They work forcibly for a life:
Indefinitely shortened.
You've done this to yourself.
Deny all the deterioration that penetrates the
Beaming possession of your inner corpse,
Primitive in comparison to your years.
I desire the secret to life, giving me
Capability to thunderbolt
Lingering love into your body,
Reawakening also your mind,
Making constant pester
From who adore you significant.
Fear of mine being,
You return to the dust of earth.
Too soon, too early
As the cigarette smolders in your grasp,
It being your final words to me.



This poem is my first and only words that I have allowed myself to express about someone dear to me who chooses ciggarettes over those he loves. 


If you're only going to write once, what is something you would want someone else to hear from you?

I chose to write to someone who I thought needed to hear these words. 

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