Reds

An ashtray on my friends back porch

It’s littered with Marlboro ends

My hand, I accidentally scorch

It’s then I lock eyes with my friend

“I should quit, I know” I tell her

But there’s more to it than I show

That everything about the burn

Feels like a boy I used to know

The reds taste the same as your lips

They are all I have left of you

Cigarette buzz comes close to bliss

Maybe I ought to quit you, too.