Tobacco edit

I wear tobacco on my skin like a bruise,
blood pooling in rivulets just beneath
translucent flesh, it sings,
less painful with time,
within congregations of smoke,
of her a decade ago, him a mere year,
it seals these doorways
with a glaze that forms between the shatterings.
She is
an egg amongst soldiers,
the nucleus pouring down the sides,
she is the waste,
the best bit.
I wear nicotine as a cloud,
holding in then belatedly exhaling rain.
or perhaps a scarf,
one to hide the truth
barely hidden behind the eyes.
I'll wander into wonderings of withdrawal somedays,
find who I was before I managed this grief
as if it was
a plume of city smog
funnelled between those cherry trees,
a red door never opened,
a question mark on the sky.