You breathed it out so softly, "smoke" was the word, and your breath came slowly. Your lungs burned brightly, painfully, beautiful. Your arms were ridden with heart attack, arteries cracked and faded. Mottled violet vein…

I'm not okay. (I promise.) These nights, there is no livelihood. I feel alone, depressed, uninterested. Even now, I'm not happy writing this. It may just be the cold medicine making me sluggish. Maybe, Maybe not. It did …