smoke.
the smell of nicotine
rests on my black
graphic t-shirt.
the dwell of misery
rests on my back,
while music reverbs.
my black vans are
filthy with the weight
of pain.
a wallet,
filled with little notes.
writings from her
in my back pocket.
a very lonely bench awaits
my place as i sit and
try to out smoke
this familiar mental state.
i look out into the
water ahead, the creek’s
liquid mirror reflecting
her aura.
“oh god, not again.”
a sudden and sharp spike
of sadness runs through
me, a longing tear trails
my frozen cheeks.
then i remember him,
and how much i miss him.
i remember him calling out
for me along with mom,
and how harmoniously my
heart would pump gallons
upon gallons of hot burning
blood.
hot burning love.
i take another drag to mask
the molecules of reality
that i wish i wouldn’t have
to inhale.
i look up
at the aligning stars,
and by the grace
of the god i do not
believe in
do i tell you
that i let out a cry
so loud, that he himself must’ve
felt heaven shake.
with water flooding
my brown eyes, i
yelled and pleaded
whatever being
that could hear me
to end me, because
i tell you that
all this pain,
of missing certain people,
of longing for lost love,
of experiencing incompleteness,
of feeling so ******* unable to stand up,
of combatting the poison guilt is,
drags.
at my soul,
harder
than cigarette
smoke.
-melancholicreator
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