The wisps of smoke rise around my fingers in a sensual coil, like past lovers' fingers just barely caressing the surface of my skin. Heated, luxurious, and ever poisonous.

The echoes of the night before ring in my ears as I watch the palm fronds sway in the breeze, just like my memory. Just like every stability in my life.

"Loneliness is the human condition"

I re-read the words for the fourth time in my life and know their truth to the marrow of my bones. The words now brand themselves on my skin with the heat of pain, so much hotter than the end of my cigarette.

I'm almost tempted to reach for the sharp edge in my purse, opening my wrists again, the veins popping like seams. Old scars beckoning a caress like an old friend.

Ever the smoldering phoenix, bursting into flames with every sunrise. Hoping for a hug that will mean something. A sentence with no ulterior motive lurking underneath.

Such is life; everything cherished as flimsy as a coil of smoke.