snow in summer

click. another click. you fire a cigarette. a cigarette with your life in the filter

you look at the sky. it dawns. birds are singing. but you dont hear them. the cigarette's crackle wont let. you stub out your burned day in the ashtray and go to bed. 

you wake up in the evening. again. your skin feels like paper. the taste of ash in your mouth reminds you. it reminds you that you turned yourself into a cigarette.

days pass. weeks pass. life passes. every day you look at the blank piece of paper. it is empty. just like your head. to muffle that void you take a quill. but in a few moments you notice that there is a smoldering cigarette between your fingers instead of it. it sets on fire another colorless calendar sheet.

you just stopped understanding. understanding why you are still filling your lungs with smoke coming from this death torch instead of setting your body on fire with it just to feel the tase of pure air... air, that is not meant for lungs.

you dont even know what are you waiting for... running out of cigarettes? a miracle? or that the snow will fall for you amid august?

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