i don't even smoke cigarettes;
but i love writing about them.
the way they look in human hands
and you just
know that they are sad enough to need
something to calm the thoughts throughout the day;
the way the smoke slithers from the ablaze butt
and
withers away like it wasn't even there in the first
place.
maybe it's because people themselves
are a lot like cigarettes:
at some point
they wither away
and run out,
unable to move for-
ward because
somebody was sel-
fish enough to
put them out.
