The Crimson Filter

I wish to replace the white filter,
pressed, firmly, between your lips,
as your gentle hands craft the last cigarette of the day.
Stained by the dark shade of your cheap lipstick.

If I am lucky, you will hold me too tight,
for just a moment too long.
The moisture will crack your skin with indignant purpose.
So, I can steal a drop of your crimson blood
to taint my snowy white complexion.

Though it will only be a moment
before you cast me aside.
I will remain sane
in the knowledge that
for one brief second,
as you dragged the nicotine deep into your lungs,
that fleeting instant of ecstasy,

belonged to me.