Smoke

My hands smell like cigarettes and pages,

Funny,

I haven't smoked in a long time.

My cheeks burn from ten dollar wine,

How that pen grips differently when I am alone.

I often wonder if Vonnegut could even grasp a ledger,

After his fourth glass or if his hands

Reeked of typewriter ink and solitude.

Even Emily wore it at her wrists and neck,

Splashing it on for her walls and panes,

My hands smell like cigarettes and pages,

Funny,

I haven't smoked in such a long time.