Like your heart dropped acid
Subtle at first. One smoke, two smoke, three smoke, four... And, karmic, no one ever questioned you about it as you had hoped, even though you had an answer for every cigarette. Overdoses and guns were too shocking; slitting wrists too much like a teenage girl. (Sometimes, I wonder if you forgot that's what you were.) Out-and-out suicide was wrong, you said, but it lost its sting if you strung it out over decades. All our old friends, the ones you started hanging out with again, the ones who quit smoking, they'll roll cigarettes for you. They love to roll cigarettes, and roll their earrings, and argue about anarchy. And you love them, and you love the cigarettes, the music, the sweat and patchouli, the panhandling, how their...your...minds always beat in straight time.