tWenty siX

I put off the cigarrete. The ashtray is not full, but it already stinks, a poisonous smell that feels so good sometimes, when it invades my lungs killing me delicately. Life is not usually so delicate. I am 26, three minutes more and my birthday day will be over at this side of the ocean. There's something on my mind, but I don't quite know what it is. Perhaps that's the perfect definition for my present mood, for the way I perceive my age here and now. Any sense of control escaped from my hands a long time ago, when I was too young to notice. Now I am too old to remember when it happened, how.
A verse, a poem, a face, a hungry kid.