my tongue curls as i light my ciggie boy and pull in, fire to a furnace, i wait for ash to spill as i tick near its tip, and of you, much like the wind, my mind wanders and shifts and settles, steady mania spirals through me, grabs me and drags me by the spine. if it wasn't for the hood of my sweater, my head would've blown away with the dead leaves of my backyard's oak tree.