Marlboro Baby

An observation made in passing.

Well, she's the kind of girl
that always blows smoke in your face
and doesn't shy away
just invades your space.
She's got a wrinkle in her eye
and a touch of bass to her laugh
yet somehow, you feel so much higher
when you're with her.
And even when she blows a sigh,
she's still better company
than you've ever been.
Even on those grey days
when the clouds spoil your sight,
her conversation's a welcome delight.
Everyday her chimney hair wisps
past your cold, caffeine hands.
Her piano-wound digits are stained
with her habit, it's fair to say
the Marlbaro Man's her daddy.
She's got painted finger-tips straining
on the edge of her un-filtered lies
while she licks the wounds
on the torn paper's line.
You could imagine her morning's
clearly now, in rising
she's choking for her cancer sticks,
then taking her coffee with no sugar,
but she's a real sweetie you know.
She's no model, but she's seen
her share of cameras,
caps and boys with Bachelor degrees.
And so she wants to stay thin, trim
for that perfect man.
So she puffs her figure away.
The coffee fills her black heart.

A light-hearted flirt weighed down
by the tar in her lungs,
she takes big breathes
and speaks in tongues.
And in between inhaling
she takes to casting smoke signals
on your lap that crash grey
and threaten to stay
the course of a better night.
Well, you'll sail with her dark clouds
and she'll knit you some shrouds
for the day you pass away
in your sleep with your heart on full stop.
She stops it with a kiss.
Her lips are soft and ashtray-flavoured,
something to be savoured
in the embers of your dying fire.
Her heart still pulses,
but it's blackened and beating.
Blackened, but beating.

I woke up today with her name
on my lips and her hand
on my wrist, I counted each digit
on my cold, caffeine hands.
I'm too wound up to see the song
she's been playing for years.
With every tool, I tune her out.
But you see, well,
she's the kind of girl that'll blow
second-hand smoke signals
for you to decipher
at your own discretion.
And like me,
you'll fail to see the morse code
hidden in her beating heart.
Blackened, but still beating.
Somehow.