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Brad
You unintentionally haunt me.
Questions you left hanging in the air.
You used to smoke outside the movie theater and bitch about politics
How one billion living skeletons reach out to us for simple things, starving
Who needs zombies when real people fall apart from preventable illness?
Pick a monster: a vampire or a war profiteer.
Meanwhile, I would watch your lips move around cheap cigarettes.
Each exhalation looked like the ghosts of lung cells on the cold air.
When the cancer ate you up, you saw a sick humor in it.
And underlined the word “cremation” in your will
So you could “smoke one last time”.
Now, without you, I stand alone in the alley thinking
The air smells like burnt tobacco, but that may only be in my mind.
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