I plead with my mind to type something.  

Anything.  

Any little thought, 

No matter how big or small, 

Which might spark something bigger.  

I feel my chest tightening, 

Pressure building in my head.  

Why can’t I type?  

Why can’t I think?  

I reach for a pack of cigarettes, 

But the hollow crinkling of cellophane 

Speaks of what I already know.  

I shouldn’t have quit yesterday, 

Or the day before that.  

Dawn will break soon.