The last cigarette has burned in my hand,
Reminding me how tonight
is no different from all other nights—
debauchery in nicotine
like there’s no tomorrow.
After the haze, it has become clear
why I felt content
in the brevity of
a single stick.
There is no point indulging
on these little rods
whose smoke I blow
for the winds to take
or inhale slowly
to corrode my lungs.
What’s the point in all of this—
when everything vanishes
into thin air?
When all that would be left
are my soot-thick lips—
and all that has touched them
is gone.
Josef Brian M. Ramil
