The end of a cigarette is my daughter

[tectak]

'The end of a cigarette is my daughter’

            We have walked so far, you and
I, through the misted density of forgetful towns
    Which wash our feet       like Christ with perfume.
We smell of sourness and untouched hopes     which     linger
        At the back of       refrigerators or between the cushions
Of     our old     sofa; they wait for us     to find them and pick them out
              And once again cherish our longings, holding them
To our breasts like a feeding     child. Feeding them on     our blood
And the disappointed humours which congeal on cold windowpanes.

This breath in me is you. My lungs are full of your voice and
      Whispers       and I can barely breathe because     you are
My breath. I pull you to my lips – — – take a drag, and you are
    Both outside and in. This end, this conclusion, of     a wet, bitter
Cigarette is my daughter. This end – — – this end.
This end is me.

Hi eileen
I have read the posts on this piece. I have read your responses. I like the piece, I like your defence/explanation of what are, frankly, affectations. There is a danger that the excellence if your word skills will become swamped by your idiosyncrasies. I accept that you get some unimaginable high from observably erratic ( though you would say essential) spaces and dashes and hyphens and line breaks and enjambments and verse shape you must be aware that ALL of these devices are subject to crit and comment on this board.
So...assuming you will not vanish in a fit of pique and blue funk, I can only say that I rewrote your whole piece with conventional (perish the thought) form and format...and bugger me, it was STILL excellent. The difference is, I could not fault it. So thanks for your imperfections...it made me feel good.
Best,
tectak