Cigarettes

There are curtains drawn in defiance, windows to gather dust behind sweating summer glass. He holds hot air between his fingers, just an addict wishing for cigarettes in a room filled with sepia-toned memories. Light drips through stained cotton, years trapped behind a dirty filter, a world of curling grey. He feels the missing smoke in his lungs, missing shortness of breath. The tar lining his lungs reminds him of streets, reminds him that the world is no longer ashes to ashes; it is filth to filth. He ignores the air filling his chest. His veins stand independent and aloof, branching side street capillaries and Main Street arteries pulling for fruitless horizons, trapped behind a cage of skin. He rolls thoughts between fingertips and imprints messages like a blood pact. His eyes close as his mind runs mountain ranges. He ignores the air filling his chest.