Her black pack,
A feeling of sadness
Lingers momentarily,
The last is always a pity,
For it signals the End;
She pulls it out
Hesitantly,
Puts the white device
Against her red lips,
Craving it
Unlit for a second,
Lighting it without words
She inhales longingly
And slowly,
Savoring each breadth of death;
This last chance is more fulfilling
Than the first,
Until the potent taste of filter
Taints her mouth,
Holding the tobacco-filled stick to her eyes,
She sees it is finished and
Proceeds to
Flick it far West,
The stick sets into the night,
Disappearing for the day.
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