The only thing I've ever committed to has been cigarettes. So I've been stockpiling my doubts and all my little regrets. Maybe I'm useless, maybe I'm a waste. Or maybe I just haven't found it; maybe I haven't found it yet.
And the taste of smoke is jolting, renewing, reminding me of that fear that I am designing my life around: desperate to find color in the insipid motions of living. Maybe I am committed to the search; That one day I will wake up and be found And the first thing I reach for in the morning will not be the lighter but her or him and their pluming breath, rhythmic will surround me and the warnings on the side of my pack will seem real and my god, will I finally ******* feel.