I stand at the convenience store counter
with a smile but conflicted inside
I know I don't need them
yet, there they are.

A rainbow of apathetic death
a mosaic of bad breath
and even worse excuses
waiting to be packed
put into my chest pocket
and held close to my heart.

It makes me sick, hard to breathe
and yet here I am all ready to leave
with twenty more sticks of disease,
the same ones that gave my father
C-O-P-D.

But still I buy.

I swipe that card with little regard
to the fact that I'm reliving history
a son just as dumb as his father before him
scoring the same dope
wearing the same rope
around his collar.

I've thrown whole packs out car windows
sworn them off cause the habit,
the money lost and especially the cough
was getting to be a problem.

I've renounced this addiction
with the conviction of a holy man
yet still I stand smokes in hand
puffing away; swearing this to be my last
every time I can't help but laugh a little
cause I know I'm full of ****.
(Don't we all)

But still I buy.

We may never know
who people write about
and how they can keep writing
and
writing
and
writing

I know I write for someone
I also know the chances are
deathly low

But I still try
But I still try to reach the unreachable

And I can trust that you
the person reading my poetry
can understand and relate to
yourself and others
about changes

Warm, short lasting
and full of memories.

Your laugh, your eyes
and that unforgettable smile.

The photographs we took
left under my bed gathering dust.

I call you my summer
because just like that,

you were slowly disappearing
Your colours started to change.

You should know,
I have never liked summer.