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

Burlington turns to UST for help


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