Too many cigarettes

Summer night,
even the stars wilt with your heat.
Even my nails begin to shred
silk-skin from my cheeks in strips
that curl like smoke.
Even love even rapture,
like dried ricefields fade,
like old paintings fade.
I even out my days
with matchsticks unevenly kept
on my table and I
have to light my cigarette
with the tip of an incense stick:
Two dim orange-drizzles glow,
Their smoke waltzing towards the ceiling
as my fingers spiral upwards to kiss
the curled silk-skin hanging
from my cheek even as I
breathe even as I
draw the smoke from
my cigarette even as
the inside of my mouth begins
to despise its own taste,
my lips begin to curl
at a passing girl.