Dying Laugh

The hot cherry that burned like a hot iron, and the smell of crackling cloves that popped with every inhalation of numbing vapors that sended a deathly, calm chill throughout my body, relaxing me like death, God, I how I miss the taste of those djarum blacks on late Miami nights when I would lay outside by the blue lit pool where I would stare at the stars like an animal of the night, feasting on the sight of the stars that hung low like those shoes that you’d find hanging on wires on random streets.   I could almost feel their luminous burn with my fingertips, but they were always far enough for me to love them every night with fantasies of one day showering in their nuclear light, wishing upon  them like a kid after watching Pinocchio, and resting my impossibilities of hope within them like lockets of promise. I remember those nights so fondly, alone like a wolf under the moon, desperately depressed as I stared wondering if someone that loved me or maybe one day could, would be staring at the cold blue sky with me at the same time, wishing to find a home that wasn’t the one on my back, like a land turtle seeking the ocean he’d never seen, a place that called for me with a promising taste that I would hear my soul laugh, a sound I grew impatient to listen to, like a Christian who awaits to hear the voice of God. I wanted to hear the laugh of something that was dying inside me.

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