like listening to a sad song when you're already sad

poetry

i inhale a drag of my herbal cigarette

i’m in my tiny office with my painted yellow walls

the warm amber light makes me feel cozy

why can’t everything feel like warm amber?

why can’t fluffy comforters be wrapped in angels?

1978 Langdon Ave will always be my matzah ball soup

my Jachnun

my Malawach

i don’t know

maybe i’m just hungry

hungry for the clovey taste of the cigarette smoke trapped inside my mouth

maybe i’ll keep it there

fire is a stomach-growling prison

Hebrew is herbal history

because smoking reminds me of Ema

she smoked 3 packs a day

when i was little, i used to hide her cigarettes because i learned in school that cigarettes could kill you dead

i didn’t want her dead.

ever

that didn’t work out

i exhale the smoke

and i miss it already

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