The flame shakes like it knows I don’t have steady hands anymore. My fingers don’t feel like mine anymore. Eyes half shut, heavy as bricks, I don’t even know if I’m trying to stay awake or hoping I don’t. The joint hangs there, stupid little crutch, waiting for fire like it matters.

Wax dripping, slow, slow, slow.. mocking me, counting down. Everything in this room whispers. Books, bottles, shadows.. they’ve all seen me like this before. They know.

I lean in. Smoke kisses me back but it’s empty, hollow. I keep pretending it fills me, but it just burns. Burns and fades. Always fades. My chest feels like it’s full of ghosts.

I smirk. I always smirk. A mask, cheap and cracked, but it fools no one. Not even me. The flame paints me bright for a second holy, almost, then sputters. Gone. I’m gone too.