The Smoker

Yes, I am a smoker.

Yes, I smoke.

What else is there to do?

But watch the ash fall

And stare into the dark sky?

What can I do to the wind I cannot control?

What can I do to the exhaled smoke

That only follows the direction of the air?

It leaves me, and I cannot blame the breeze for blowing.

What can I do when I do not understand myself?

What can I do when no one understands me?

I just light another spark,

Knowing the warmth was never meant to stay.

You know everything.

I know you do.

But I swallow the words I cannot express,

And you pretend to be the unknown.

We sit in the quiet, playing our parts.

I know I am never going to be enough.

No matter what I do,

I cannot force the fire to catch.

A cigarette without a lighter

waits quietly in the cold.

Paper. Dry leaves.

A promise that never became flame.

I know the ash will bury me.

I am a fool with a lighter,

Holding tighter to what is consuming me.

I know it hurts. I know it kills.

But I cannot stop.

Because the smoke in my lungs

is what gives me the energy to live.

And God, so do you.