CIGARETTE BURNS

When I think of you
I feel tiny white worms burrowing my chest
like into a cherry blossom.

Or I feel like an ashtray,
like the skin of a submissive land beneath cigarette trash.
The thought
of your touch
traces soft clouds on a dark sky.

And when you think of me
do you think of smoke?
Or do you see me through the smoke and mirrors, dimly?
At the deserted dock,
I thought I saw you submerged beneath my reflection.

. .