We Can't Smoke If We're Always Kissing Each Other

Well, if we're stuck
with each other,
and our lips
wake tingling
for another

nail, maybe
rearranging
the cushions
of our coffin
would elevate
the mood, 

our fingers
could stitch
a failproof
patch, our
talk better
than any glass 

of water. 

Our mouths
could cross
burning fields
to abate
the stinging,
we could
reciprocate
until the
worst passes,
our lungs
vacuumed
clean of ash,
cancer's
last gasp.