I am smoking a joint in a silence
that could smother me without the help
of inhaling smoke instead of oxygen.
Our hearts are closed off and cold,
the draw bridge we built between them
has turned to splinters and shards.
I am weak and I am enervated and
I am left with a quaking hunger
that reminds me of the apple Eve
couldn’t resist and I think maybe
I would have eaten it too.  I wear
too many scars as badges of honor
but it’s too late to return any of them.
I consider cutting them out and leaving
new ones behind because cyclical things
cannot be helped but they don’t
have to be encouraged to grow, either.

The End

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