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On my bookshelf sits a cup of cigarettes,
Menthols-
But I’m not a smoker.
Every now and then I pull out my lighter
Take a few drags
And curse at myself for letting go once again-
But I’m not a smoker.
And it’s not an addiction.
It’s simply lost willpower
Letting myself drop the promises I make to myself
To sit and smoke a few
Taste the burnt mint roll across my tongue-
But I’m not a smoker.
I always buy a new pack
When I notice the cup running low,
Never let it empty completely
That would mean I smoke-
But I'm not a smoker.
The light dims.
The fire dies.
Darkness fills in the blanks.
Sweet release.
Tears against my cheek.
Now met with the dissatisfying drought.
Left alone in desolate cold.
Fear overwhelms.
Not fear of monsters or the simple unknown.
Fear that when my eyes grow heavy I will never lift them again.
I will become a stone.
Unmoved and cold.
To survive these nights alone.
Hollow she preens.
Forever correcting herself before her own glass ceiling.
Like routine examinations throughout the day to ensure she is in working order.
Though she is falling apart.
Hair is too flat and makeup runs away.
She is beautiful.
I could never bring myself to tell her.
Though I long for her to know that she and I do not see eye to eye.
Yet, she is the apple of mine.
So we'll both remain in misery.
And miles apart.
I think back on my nostalgic memories most often when I am reminded through music.
  Songs that were so synonymous with wonderful times in my life.
Those memories change those songs so intensely.
  Some songs become happier and some sadder.
  Lately I’ve listened to those memorial tunes and wished I could go back to when it was relevant and lovely.
Times when I was having the time of my life.
  My nostalgia is synonymous with melancholy for I know all too well that I can never go back, and even if I could, those moments would never be the same as they were.
The music now only reminds me of those that were once so close, and how far away they drifted.
The music is still good.
The music is painful.
The music is wonderful.
Meaning

They say a drunk man's talk
is a sober man's thoughts.
Frankly, there is some truth to that;
but drunkenness has a way of muddying meaning.
When I said I loved you
I meant it.
However what I meant by it was just what you think,
and so much more.
I love you not just physically,
mentally,
spiritually,
but on an emotionally dependent level.
You have a way of getting me high.
Higher than any inebriation can or ever could.
I love you for being my friend.
For believing in what I believe in
on my behalf.
And, most importantly,
for not shunning me for my flaws.
For all you do for me without even really trying,
I should kneel at your feet at the sight of you,
and thank whatever cosmic coincidence
brought me before you.
For you are walking, talking,
breathing:
Therapy.
So, for the next time I'm too drunk to stand,
and am throwing up as you hold my hair back:
Know that afterwards when I kiss you,
hug you,
tell you I love you, even.
Know now,
Exactly what I mean.

— The End —