You need a cigarette. The desire extends to a place where you literally hear the welcoming crackle of the initial inhale, crystal clear. As clear as it sounded when you heard the sudden ‘goodbye’ that induced the urgent need.
You swallow smoke and fill a place that you don’t discus. It’s a place deaf to ‘that’s bad for you’ and blind to ‘have you seen what happens when?’ Grey trails escape from flared nostrils and silent lips and you swear it’s the loudest you’ve been in so long.
Something about a forced transition cleanses you, head to toe. Something with a swish whose thankful miss of your heart seems to redeem the questions. Capture every ‘how could this happen’ like a butterfly net with an innocent … slow down. Opposed to contain.
Your mouth is warm with fire and you hide behind the danger hoping it creates some sort of threatening mirage. Something that builds distance within the attachment that you know better to assume…
Your comfort toward the dark inside that exposes inevitable weakness clouds a coldness in your eyes that’s December in the summertime… down south it’s July inside January. You’re used to moving place to place to appease the ‘more further the better’ pull that attracts your irritation the same way as swallowing fumes.
You contemplate quick fixes, what happens fast. Your valiant mold remains a statue surrounding your standard candor. Somehow you’re moving beneath the stone and the one way to tell is how your lips form around
whatever you can inhale. Anything absorbed, sniffed, sucked, and taken in brings the comfort of…
You contemplate quitting with a new appreciation of impossibility.
2 thoughts on “smoking existence”
I’ve never smoked.
But I feel like I just did.
Hello my friend, I always love hearing your voice – and thank you. I wrote this a year-ish ago and stumbled over it this morning… don’t you love when that happens?
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