I miss my pipe. I miss my tobacco. I miss drawing that poison into my lungs, feeling the burn pass tongue and tonsil, filling my chest with relaxing, noxious fumes. I miss the strike of the match and the singe of fire devouring musky leaves. I miss, well, mostly I miss the sickness; the ritual of disease. And I am a man of many a disease. Of wine and women, whisky and vision, I am an illusion of things consumed and breathed. It’s the itch that serves, that overwhelming surge of lust and lust and longing for lust that invites to ingest all matters of disgusting substances; I am consumed by each! By song and drink and women I think that I’m but a brink away from the brink that consummates a disease, a new disease, in which I can revel to my heart’s increase that I am a being entirely of disease! Of disease! From pipe to pucker, incensed with the fire that singes these very tobacco leaves, I imbibe inglorious life and expel the toxic being so many know me to be.
So, I miss my pipe.
I miss my tobacco.
I miss the slow suicide that each breath expedes. And to each I say, “Shall tomorrow be the day,” the day that I beseech one of my lovers entwined ‘neath the covers to be the physician to my disorder in perpetuity. ” Be of my kin so I may draw you in and exhale your gratuity.” And with this, my friends, is my physician’s end, and I, with my pen, am pinned to eternity. May it be a lake of fire, “all the better!” I will glower, now that I am the colophon of my writ malady.
Let tomorrow be rest with my pipe in my grasp and tomorrow I relent, “Not another breath shall I jest; no, I shall not breathe!” As the Ghost comes to take me as he gifted me as a baby, an invalid and shaky, I will not be saying, “Too hie you’ve come for me!” Rather, now is the time, a perfectly good time, that he and I shall come to arrive at the end of my story.