I often get jealous and i know, sometimes this jealousy thing is illogical. I am jealous of every people whose lucky enough to see you everyday, I am jealous of your book that you read which you look into for hours, I am jealous of your lousy-jeans-jacket which you bring everywhere. But most of time, I am jealous of your cigarettes.
Your cigarettes which always that close with you, all the time. Your cigarettes which you take a hit whenever you want though you know you will end up in coffin by doing that. Your cigarettes which you need ceaselessly though you know your lungs will grow black and full of its ashes. How could I say that I am not jealous of that destroyer shit which always close to you and need by you. Oh, I wish I was your cigarette.
But, no, I don’t want to be your cigarettes. Of course, no. And instead of being your cigarettes I want to be the air. The invisible-but-important thing that will always there around you without being noticed. The air that will always be in your lungs without ruining it. The one that you will breath in more often than your cigarettes.