A Djarum Black, After Quite Some Time

The worst thing for you: static crack and hiss,
the orange-white blossom of a magic flame
to ring the rod in ash. It's just the same
as years ago, before it came to this.

Destruction tastes of licorice and clove,
familiar sweetness sitting on my lips
not quite forgotten. Inhalation slips
through sandalwood and memory. I strove

once to eradicate affected vice,
be clean in lung and mind, to mute the buzz
of nerves vibrating with expensive smoke.
But silence played like some forgotten joke,
and now, inspired, I guess I'll pay the price
for getting back to being who I was.