an ode to addiction

We would usually sit there together,

on the front porch of my grandmother's house,

below the clearest sky we've ever seen.

We'd each lighting up at the same time,

taking simultaneous drags and then almost immediately coughing.

But the coughs birthed laughs and we were rocking back and forth,

knocking over and shattering the glasses,

my grandmother's glasses,

that held water for us.

The glasses that were waiting for us to come to our senses.

They always waited.

They were older and wiser, knowing we were stupid kids,

lost kids.

Knowing that after the first puff

we'd be snuffing the light on the earth below,

no matter how many times we did it.

No matter how many times we tried

to force our innocence away,

to dull it out with the thick haze of a cigarettes.

It never worked.

We always got the best of ourselves,

always looked down, at those little

cigarettes our fingers didn't even know how to hold,

and wonder why we'd even tried in the first place.

And the laughter would grow into regret

as silent tears rolled heavily down our young cheeks.

Because now we smelled

like the chain smokers next door,

and our only way back

was over the mess of broken glass.

So we'd kick back,

relight,

and repeat,

until the ever clear sky glittered no more.