regret

I would have, if I was a smoker left the room quietly and inhaled the slew of phytochemical alchemy of tobacco, under the umbrella of the cloudy night sky. Sitting with and releasing out my desperate consciousness of what I had just done. The dysfunctional slander to my own self. I watched you from uptop as I gave. I watched you take a gift, which left me empty-handed. I curled up in my knowing, unable to lie to myself. I would if I was a smoker inhaled deeply the what some would call poison to numb or another call medicine to soothe, feeling less and less of my painful regret. pausing in moments to hold a smoking cylinder with the faint ember fire in my hand -- it speaks my language of burning, language of pain & transformation. With each waves of breaths feeling less alone as I am being watched by the moon, the stars, and the languid movements the talking clouds. If I was a smoker the dark poetry would have unravelled from my lungs to meet the cold night air in a dance of smoky mist. My toxic offerings to the heavens, yet each inhalation an intrepid mixture of quiet lashings and brief numbing comfort.