I am six letters long.
I am the enemy you carry everyday,
I am the friend you greet every morning and every night.
I am the one that remains stuck in your thoughts,
making you wonder if you speak the language that you think in.
I am the time on your biological clock,
Tick-tocking while every passing opportunity knocks.
I am your protector from the unknown,
I am, quite frankly, all you allow yourself to know.
What am I?
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I am Regret

Life is not a cigarette box.
It is not replaceable upon reaching the bud of existence.
It does not come bearing a warning label that tells you that it can destroy you inside,
but rather expects you to find the words in the smoke.
And when you place your fait between your lips,
and ignite it,
life does not allow you to throw it to the ground,
or squish it into an ash tray.
Rather, your fait actually begins to breathe in your smoke instead.
Life is not a cigarette box,
rather a single cigarette.
Handed to you by the faint shadow of yourself,
and given to you by the distant memory of who you once were.