Currently

Drinking alone by a
dying fire, savoring the
warmth of the fading
embers. It's the only way  
I could imagine spending  
a night like this.  
 
Arms bared, angry red
just like the last four coals
still shimmering amidst the  
shadows and ash. A  
fifth one emerges  
brighter than ever before  
diminishing suddenly.  
 
Just like me, I  
think bitterly, but  
not as harsh as
the raw smoke  
filling my lungs.  
 
Every puff, every sip,
a pathetic, desperate  
attempt to smother  
what hides within. The
longing, the aching,  
the loss.  
 
Sleep would be healthier.  
Even food or sex would be  
better, but nothing beats the  
sting, the burn of the forbidden  
being consumed. Dangerously?  
No. Recklessly? Perhaps. But  
doesn't that just make it feel  
even better?  
 
The fact that it could happen?  
Finally, without much thought or
planning at all? Or does it  
feel worse to admit this
and face the rabbit hole
you willingly and utterly
stumbled head first down?