I want to ask you how your day went,
but at the same time I don’t;
because my stomach becomes more knotted
than my hair after a windy day at the beach,
when thinking of you.

I try to keep my mind from drifting to the image of you
holding a cigarette between your fingers,
and I try to forget the gray smoke,
that clouds your lungs
and turns your eyes
from blue to gray.

It hurts picturing the once innocent and curious boy
that I knew growing up. He is now only a memory I cling to.
I only want to see you grow from these choices you make.
I guess I’m just afraid that
you’ll soon become the ashes that you leave behind.