The Cadillac of Cancers.

You watched me eroding 

through your hazy periphery,

with Canon in D Minor sliding

through the speakers.

Exhalations.

Heart jumping hurdles with no saddle.
I slid through book shelves, rode
the hours of time
barebacked.

And was hurled off of time's spine
into a concussion of surreality.

I'm not a smoker, I'd rather
take hits off of your CO2 anyday.