Friday, August 8, 2014

Letters From A Forgotten Time

Dear Solstice, 

I don’t expect you to remember me. After all, it’s been 16 years since you moved away. Your life reminds me of cigarettes. 16 years of life, love, failure and success, all rolled up in paper. You light up. It’s good while it lasts, but it leaves them with cancer. You are no different. So while it’s been 16 years, I still remember you.

How could I forget?

We’ve run into each other over the years. I remember that time you almost fell from the California rocks to the bronze beach below, only to be caught by an overhanging plant. Given, it was poison ivy, but I hope you learned something.

I’m surprised how fast you’re burning. It won’t be long before your friend’s lungs start feeling tighter. First they’ll think it’s just the air quality, and when they realize it’s something far more sinister it’ll be too late. Their lips will crack, their fingers will stain and their breath will shorten.

But you’re more than just a cigarette.

You’re an addiction. And one day you’ll be naught but a burnt stub in the ash. Your ember will fade. They’ll be left hollow, with no understanding; they only ever tasted you, ignoring your smoke all together. I suppose I’m writing you as a reminder:

You’re burning.


The Abyss


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

  2. "But you're more than just a cigarette. You're an addiction." I love love LOVE this! Very deep!


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