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  • Funny,
    how a smell can send you back
    to another place, hurtling
    through space: a reverse
    déjà vu.

    For me,
    It’s the stale smoke
    That flicks me back to my past
    Like these years have vanished.

    You know,
    You’re broke
    When you gotta share
    Smokes. Bumming one after another.
    We called them ‘shorts.’

    A quick drag
    The smell of burned paper
    And the acrid taste of reused
    Nicotine.

    This half-satisfaction
    Never lasted longer than the exhale
    Once, twice, and the restlessness
    That comes from knowing
    This gasp may be your last.
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