Your cigarettes crowd my air.
It sickens the oxygen the flowers breathe.
It haunts the fabric of my clothes.
It leaves the depression of your reminder
Ill at strong will. I stomach your fill.
Your book Art of War sits on my permeable crate.
It signifies new habits of homecoming and comebacks.
The page sits lifeless – it waits and its intelligence is in the
Heart of archaic art. It tarries like Tarot.
Your gun control in the closet speaks stealthily.
It lusts with its silver: Look at me! Look at me!
It’s built soulless. Two-faced coughing Gemini spryly.
It’s all or nothing. Great responsibility or irresponsibility.
Pity, no. Pithy, yes. That is the nitty-gritty.