Pillow Smoke.

Plastic cups melting
A dying cigarrette segway screams
Into ash and saliva.

Failing falling philosophy
Of lungs keeping up with hearts
A race you put them to.

"You can't talk to women,
But you can sure make them scream,"
Writhes from my quivering
To my lip (I can't stop from biting).

For a glimpse of time,
Everytime,
By tar injection death filled fiber glass
I am porcelain,
Weathered and fragile.

For a moment of the while,
Anywhile
By the slightest motion-spurred sheet wrinkles
I am flawless,
Untouchably touchable and sweat soaked.

And we are suspended
As concentration floats
To the swell of our combined smoke trails,
Looking down to burning filters.

We pause,
And silently wonder...

How brief "we" are to our cigarettes,
How brief our cigarettes have become.