The sun was setting on a devil’s horn that evening. The golden light shone in the room where smoke reigned. And he was there, sitting so still you’d mistake him for a silhouette, just as his after long tiring days ritual always went. The echo of his deep sigh proceeded his cracked voice addressing the cigarette he held gently within his fingers, what sounded like a love confession assorted with despair and different shades of blame. He blamed it for reminding him of an alternative bad habit he referred to as « her »… for they’re both killing him softly yet can’t quit, instead, he’d give anything to get more.
The familiar silence reigned again, shortly before being cracked by his soft « but you’re nothing alike aren’t you? » … the melancholic facials reflected how no matter the deadly habit must have grown on him, it is never enough to tame the love and passion he compassed and felt toward « her ». Because at the end of the day, the burning shred of paper filled with black particles died for him whenever he lighted it up, while « her », was out of his leagues.
His tirade stopped the moment he felt weakened by how cruel emotions were to him,he lowered his gaze toward the tiny rolled piece of paper, giving it a sadistic smile before placing it between his lips, filling his lungs as much as he could then let it out so hard you’d watch his soul exhaled out and roam alongside his despair. So, no matter how nicotine addiction isn’t romanticized, you’d urge to thank his cigarettes for helping him feel light after carrying all these thoughts of « her ».
The sun bid farewell and the rays slowly faded witnessing the chain smoker lost lover disappearing inside his dark room and becoming one with the shadows, after his golden hour ritual, and one more wasted prayer upon someone he can’t have.