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“Better” by Regina Spektor:
If I kiss you where it’s sore, will you feel better, better, better?
Will you feel anything at all?

In my coat pocket are a lighter, 3 pennies, and six friend. There were eight friends, but I smoked two of them just now. I touched them to my lips as they burned. Tar stained their white paper as they dissolved into wind-blown ash. The three pennies are not my friends. They are the brazen reminders of emptiness and futile pursuits. I sit alone on the porch.

The nicotine buzz subsides, and the honest reality of life pressures in from the stark, sun-washed pavement. Now, the air is clear and cutting. The sun graces my cheeks, but one side of me is cold, smitten by the harsh late-fall breeze. I am alone.

Do cigarettes forgive?

I’m tired of numbing my mind on nicotine splits and satiating my lungs’ narcissistic lust for smoke. Cigarettes should choose to be smoked and not have to burn at my bidding.

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