I Hardly Ever Smoke

I hardly ever smoke.

But when I do, it is because I can’t stand to feel my own heightened breath barrel through my lungs without a direction or purpose for one moment longer. My body is not a pinball machine, but my pulse tends to jump at the chance to play.

It will be because my heart is aching for something that I have never experienced…or maybe I did…long ago. In a dream. Like seeing a color you have no name for. Sometimes I almost think I see that color in you, but what if instead, it is a disappointing violet, mauve or lavender hue?

It will be because I have writers block and am stuck on the blank page of my life; scribbling, crossing out, scribbling, crossing out. The most avid readers hang on my every move, desperate to know the ending. Me too.

It could be because I haven’t spoken to the moon in a while and I have a great deal of questions to ask. My “Dear Abby” letters are all addressed “Dear Universe” and almost always end with the same question. The question of whether it even matters at all.

It’s usually just because I feel small.

I hardly ever smoke. But sometimes, on the precipice of life, between the corners of the moon and the colors, on the edges of the pages or lost in the ocean of the universe,

I might step out for a moment

and breathe some fire back into me.


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