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
Into a mass grave
Where their fire dies, and turns to ash.