Breath

Stress-ball to the left of me
Coke-head to the right
Her I am, stuck in the middle with you

Fog surrounds each smoker, wafting
Gently away
Hold
Lungs burn either way- ashes
Are lack of oxygen
Holding my breath
The same
But ashes rip-burn pockets of dystrophy in my lungs
Much more death-y than going without
life-atoms
completely

Oh the irony