I forget how they taste like.
In dreams, a pale blue thread of
smoke strangles me. Faintly the trace
of another smoker follows me
as I wander aimlessly at first,
then arriving at the site
of my beautiful grave.
I sit up in my bed looking
at the alarm clock.
A bird is singing outside.
I forget how it tastes like.
Amber traffic light at the end of the stick.
The sound that it makes when it thinks I'm not looking.
The stolen glances across the room at the little box I finished last night.
The emptiness, some sort of regret, then hunger or whatever, to pass the time.
Waving it around like a wand.
The sensation that passes
with each dying puff.
Tiny little dragons.
I forget. I simply forget.