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.
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,
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.