10,000 miles of filterless cigarette

you are 42 years old
while i have a crush on you
the eighties still stand out to me
not as the decade i was born in
but as the decade you decorated yourself
like a Halloween pinata
and as the decade you traded in your mo hawk
for a career in professional gambling
but for now we have stretch and flex
every morning at nine
before mrs dash counts her spices to sleep
so your taste buds my fire freely
or breathe spice
however you prefer
or pat each other with patches on the back
or where we don't grow hair
so nicotine develops into velcro
and sticks to the skin like it belongs there
throughout the entire shower
of make believe thoughts
that pierce through prescription
when you forget to miss a dose
because of distraction
which is unmanageable and gorgeous
at the very same time
while things are no longer counteracted
by medicine
it is time to remember how to progress
and where periods take place
somewhere between meaningless and acceptance
as an everlasting conclusion
to different places in time
or if it is lodged in your throat
and you are too tired to wash it down
take a sip of friendship
and let it go
but then become frustrated
and begin another activity
that takes up more time
somewhere between meaningless and acceptance
so you can figure where to store
recurring thoughts
that are uninterpretable
or based on misconception
which could very well be everything
for all i know