On nights like this,

I wonder why I smoke

I wonder if after inhalation,

What would happen,

Should I not exhale at all.

What would I feel then?

Would I lament it?

Would I weep?

Would it be bittersweet?

I think I would say, "oh well."

I think I would fold up my dreams,

And place them next to me, all neat,

And think,

"It was a nice thought,

It was a nice thing to want,

It was a beautiful fantasy, at least."

I think that could be enough, for me.

That would be enough.

It has all been enough.

I haven't turned out the way I thought.

But that's okay, it never really does.

And it's my fault,

The way things ended up.

I walked here, I am walking there.

It's my feet, they're my legs.

I have nothing for which to complain.

My bed is warm for now,

Some day it will be cold.

That's all there is to it, I suppose.

There's me, then there isn't.

There is a future, then in a sudden,

There is only present,

And finally, nothing.