This morning's cigarette
I bought at the airport in Rome.
It wavers in a cold district
as I question my romances.

Dear cigarette, little acid stub
on a tile, you lived your span
in a long winding fume:
May my own life stick
to her hands like smoke.

There is always a tinge of
Illogic    In Logic.

Into a deep abyss I sink
Struggling to cope
Consuming alcohol, I need to drink
I dream to float

We are beautiful,
like fresh flowers
born of ashes,
like dawn
after a moonless night.

Why is it
That the more times
I say I’m okay
The closer I get
To not being okay

The world could be a scary place sometimes.
It could be hell in your safest heaven,
could be comfort in your midnight prison.

And it could be the one in the pieces,
that’ll make it one for sure;

A reflection of yourself in the mirror.

—n.y