Smoky Eyes

Smoke Disappears

The sound of cars occasionally passing by
crunching the leaves on the ground,
curving the air with their form,
they crush their horns like it matters.

I can't see them from my bed,
they move through the streets like ghosts 
as far as I know they only exist as simple sound,
wisps of a physical concept

I fill my room with cigarette smoke,
the air of depressed stagnance expanding
It flows in my eyes and it's a unique kind of pain
a veil of gaseous particles choking my sight.

It curls and twists with the air
the fan in the corner gives it a whisk
spinning through my intermittent breaths
climbing the space to the ceiling

up, up, up...
If only I were a wisp of smoke
whisked by the air around
swept to new heights by a breath
energized by the flow

I build a home in the smoky billows
cushioned by my wish to slip away
sometimes depression is so comforting.

You are worth it though. 
I tell myself what I need to hear.
I teach myself to love reflexively. 
Reflecting on my inherent value within.

People become distorted mirrors of the self
displaying a hazy kind of truth
colored by the filter of their perspective
we take as an objective assessment. 

Curling away from the smoke
choked by the toxic fumes
I blink and it's gone

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