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.