The Crimson Filter

Oh, how I wish to replace the white filter,
Pressed, firmly, between your lips,
As your gentle hands craft the last cigarette of the day.

To be stained by the dark shade of your cheap lipstick,
If I am lucky, you will hold me too tight,
For just a moment too long.
The moisture will crack your skin with indignant purpose,
So I can steal a drop of your crimson blood,
To taint my snowy white complexion.

Though it will only be a moment,
Before you cast me aside,
I will remain sane,
In the knowledge that,
For one brief second,
As you dragged the nicotine deep into your lungs,

That fleeting instant of ecstasy,
Belonged to me.

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