Dear me,
I think I formed a habit of smoking tobacco hoping with every drag I take under dead trees, I begin to forget his name
All my lungs seem to do, is rust and I can't help but wonder whether the memory of him would turn to burnt orange and fade or not
My heart pounds so loudly and all I want is for it to stop, to give in, to turn to black, like a  room with no lights and give into the reaper who'd claim my soul