The Perfect Joint

I grind my hopes to coarse powder and roll it in the skillfully folded filter of dreams.

I have been good at that, over the time.

I baptize the joint with moist grief from my eyes.

The joint singes at one end and I, at another.
I smile at myself in smug admiration.
Dreams turn darker.
Ash of unfulfilled wishes litters the floor.

Smoke of memories fills my lungs.

I am only a wisp of smoke.
Drifting away in shapeless figures...
Vanishing into the hollow shell of nothingness...
Ending up in the ephemeral paradise that glitters only for a night...

I may have existed. Or may not.
It's hard to tell on nights when I have the perfect joint like this.

-- Statutory Warning: Smoking is injurious to health. Including smoking your hopes.