Disclaimer: Smoking is bad for you. Writing is good for you. 

It rests beneath my fingertips

Soft, yet crunchy. I raise it to my lips,

Take a deep breath in, lower, exhale.

A puff of smoke rises.

Again I inhale.

I stand by the window, bathed by the moon

Its silvery light shines bright in the room

The world lies below me, no movement or breeze

The stillness is stifling, just like a disease

It’s burning my lungs. I breathe out again.

Take another puff.

And another.

And another.

My eyes fill with smoke, and water. I open the window.

It’s too cold.

My heart feels heavy, like it’s made of gold.

Oh, if I had that gold, then I’d be so rich

I’d have a palace, and diamonds,

And satin

And lace

Pearls to frame my wrinkled face

But I am too poor. I take another puff.

They say it will kill me, but I don’t mind much.

There’s not much to miss here, and I’m too high to care

The ashes spread on my clothes and the floor.

The smoke rises.

It’s everywhere.

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