The Ghost of Tobacco (a poem)

The Ghost of Tobocco  

on my lips—

from the vogue Bleue

I had for my dinner.

Eyes heavy, 

hooded, 

glazed with a distant stare—

my mind flooded.

A love marred

by the absence 

of absolution.

Us, 

a tangled mess

of Churchyard lovers;

skin-to-skin.

Muttered prayers,

hoping God wasn’t home that day,

to witness the pleasure 

we found in sin.

A chorus of summertime laughter—

echoes of us, 

prior to your indifference,

ring in my ears,

like tinnitus. 

Bird-voiced

Sunday afternoons—

slow and unspoilt,

when bitterness tasted of 

dark chocolate 

And the morning coffee 

inprinted on your lips—

Now, it tastes of 

the absence 

of our forgiveness. 

The trace of my perfume 

on your bedsheets.

Your breath against my neck.

Whispered poetry—

words that spoke of… 

peace.

Words that settled in my chest.

The trace of your fingertips—

lazy,

adoring 

along my flesh.

All ghosts,

just like, 

the taste 

of my burnt-out cigarette. 

                                      -L.B