The deck we built this summer was

A big hit with my friends; it seemed the perfect place

To have a smoke or two or ten while we thought

 Far too passively, ignoring just how rapidly the cancer

Acclimated; we probably should’ve waited more than 15 years to start

‘Cause now we tear apart not just our lungs but also dreams of

Having a fresh start; breathing through lungs not bogged down with the scars of tar.

Dreams of staircases not feeling like mountains,

Dreams of breath feeling relaxed instead of labored,

Of hearing “good” on your bill of health’s paper,

Of smelling like fresh pomegranate from soothing body washes

Instead of prematurely banging nails into our coffins

Of having a beautiful singing voice,

Of being the tennis team’s first choice.

Voluntarily we murder our dreams

They die in the form of cigarette butts, tossed over the deck railing

Suspended in the blackness of night

They fall

Into a mass grave

Where their fire dies, and turns to ash.