I stare at the ceiling
Bare, bland and utterly indifferent.
The curtains are drawn, but light spills through
Making dancers of defiant dust particles,
And emboldening the steady streams of cigarette smoke
Which undulate and twist their way upwards contemptuously
Before colliding silently with the ceiling, forming an acrid pool,
Heaving and swelling in time with my own breathing.
I imagine the cloud slinking slowly downwards, insidiously
And engulfing me. Gossamers, so fine as not to be seen at all,
Slipping down my throat, nonchalant but unrelenting.
Impregnating my lungs with fresh poison and refusing to leave again.
After the initial rush, the pounding , hammering heart
And the overwhelming panic, tangible as an electric current coursing through my veins,
Everything is obfuscated by a sense of calm so powerful
All I can do is chuckle inwardly at the futility of struggling
And let it take me.
Smoking does kill, so they say. It could happen.
**** it. I get up and open the curtains.