leap year

Saint Clare cries "Parsimony!" as you resolve to give up cigarettes

After three years of silence stretches
rugburnt knees
mapless directions
the almighty "YES" -
we've finally pitched our tent somewhere permanent;
somewhere fruitful. Around that
time when you quit smoking
last year, I, in turn,
gave up religion. Now we sleep
in separate bedrooms,
separate houses,
separate states;
I flick my ashes into the cherubic
face of this new man I'm
fucking, expecting that, somewhere,
you're saying your prayers.
One more hit would not hurt;
detangle the beads of your rosary
and join me. As untrained
Bolsheviks we will hoist our flags of state
high, pronouncing peace, and land, and bread.

One evening, id will take a line
and superego will suffer a bloody nose.