By Jacob Bennett

Trinket of time travel.
At the flick of flint
moments spark back to mind,
as I inhale what is killing me
to become closer to what
makes me feel alive.
I feel that Spring day
scorch my lungs;
The palm to plastic
is your hand in mine.
I let the drag escape with a sigh,
the cascading smoke
that douses my lips
could never dilute

your taste.

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