He had a tattoo on his wrist

Of stars deprived of luminescence

Forming constellations which spelled a scar

From times he wrestled with cigarette smoke.

He had hidden it well,

Beneath shirt sleeves and wrist bands.

They never showed… except in his eyes,

Until a few years ago.

Wrestling with cigarette smoke,

Encountering the cylinder itself,

Having found it lit and orange,

He burnt a hole in himself.

“Look!”

He told me for the first time ever.

He had it all figured out.

The stars dotted the beautiful scars,

The smoke had finally escaped his mouth.

His yellow fingers were turning red,

The scars had escaped his eyes,

To be replaced with the sparkle

Of the luminous stars from simpler times.

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