the white stick dances between my fingers, burning my skin not now but over time, smoke parading in my lungs, celebrating its exquisite destruction, pleasuring my mind, problems are forgotten, bliss is this
this cigarette is kinder to me
than you ever were
YOU ARE READING
un • ravel | poetry
Poeziehe was made of a solar substance so splendid and sumptuous that ethereal stars envied his everlasting existence
