Une (unecasette) wrote in poetmotel,
Une
unecasette
poetmotel

New.




Like every morning since my stint on public access television during the turn of the century, or my case 1974, I have sacrificed a cigerette to the morning gods.


It wouldn't be life now in days without one.

I assume the attack stance as I skillfully hunt the single pack of Parliament lights coyly hiding behind my television.
Did I mention the television is pink?

Like a snake, I slither under the layers of covers I had buried myself under the night before.

This pack has a mind of its own and I have a mission. I remain quiet not to startle. Precisely moving fractions closer I aim for my target.

1/2

1/4

1/8

1/16

At the speed of light, half-hanging over my nest--

I surge like lightning to grab them.

Another sucessful attack.

My fingers wrap around the box, and it won't ever be able to escape me.

I won.

Upon opening the box I can see that nine of my beauties still lay silent in the confines of cardboard and filters and paper with the daintiest script in blue telling me what type and eluding to what flavor they will be.

Hidden inside the box is the key to my morning. A contraption. A tool.

Today I won't be greedy. One is just enough. One eases the addiction. The hunger.

The small object dances over my fingers, beconing me to try it. It wispers things to me. This pray is sly and in years to come I will fully understand it's damage to me.

With tool in hand my ritual starts. In hand, hand to mouth, light and inhale.

I assume the position. Lounge back, inhale, hold and feel the smoke travel inside of me. Exhale.

I repeat this as needed until my beauty starts to burn out.

I hold it between my fingers then, solemnly letting go. Like a dying something, like a dying anything, there is nothing I can do to bring it back.

It just adds to the story of my life.

Every morning I say goodbye and wait for the hunt to begin, once again.

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