Today it is three years since I stopped smoking. I refuse to say ‘quit’ as the word gives me too much pressure. This poem is dedicated to my burned-out lungs.

In for a long time

I touch your lips
in fear.

I have the shortest life
in your hands.

I have the longest life
in a carton.

I am sold over the world
in a store.

I start my journey
in a factory.

I remain untouched
in a box.

I live
in a moment.

I die
in a longer moment.

I am
in your lungs,
in for a long time.


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