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.
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