Ashes of the lost twenties

This is the ash of a cigarette
light. A light in rain, in
clouds, in old memories
where I dreamt of
smoking in other worlds.
Here, ashtray,
ashtrays, ashes of burned,
scorched butts that can't
breathe any longer
but just adhere to my
pink lungs and turn them gray
like my heart is becoming right now.
I miss the way
you took a cigarette,
lit it up and exhaled the smoke
of death. But I can't
miss
dead cigarettes. They're dead.
Dead. Like cigarettes must be.
I took in a wholesome breath.
I felt how my lungs
ached, longing for forgiveness.
I felt how I didn't mind.
Oxygen, no oxygen. There is
no
oxygen for you. Boy,
have you been smoking in the house?
No, I haven't.
Chimneys of
great factories fall.
I haven't smoked, I swear.
I swear I haven't smoked.
I haven't.