I think a cigarette would best help
to describe how i feel,
I'd sit on my patio with my legs drawn
up under me, I'd lean against something
in the grey damp of november
and I'd smoke and let tears fall
as i watch the air
for invisible particles.
paricles of smoke, city grime and of me.
watch the sky for a bomb
draw and let the tears itch and dry
on my cheeks
that would be the end of detached me,
and I'd burn it and inhale,
and the taste would stay with me,
my hands my hair, acrid.