Summer’s warm smile has faded under the clouds, and I’m watching the leaves glow as they float down from the trees’ arms. I begin to feel autumn’s cold breezes tickle my back as I fall to bed, and I regret complaining about August’s nocturnal heat. An entire life spent inside an oven couldn’t prepare me for a chill like this. All I want is some cereal, something to keep my belly full from a taste worth savoring.

Hopscotch and stumbled to the kitchen like the little boy I am. I scale the counter to reach the top of the cabinet in search of what I desire. A box of cornflakes: a blank canvas painted by my nostalgia. Bananas sliced by my mother, sugar spilled by my brother. Morning or midnight, a bowl filled to the brim has never failed me. All that’s missing is a crisp glass of milk. Giddied up, I jump down from the counter and slide to the fridge –

Until I’m spotted by a tempting pack sitting pretty on the counter. Suddenly, I’m at a crossroads: do I choose nostalgic comfort or falter to the bliss of maturing? For good measure, I flip open the pack, ignoring all the warning signs, just to see the lucky cig flipped over. Ready for the taking. And by divine intervention, a lighter is already waiting in my pocket. So, naturally, I go on with the act: I was always told it was a sin to waste, and this opportunity is no exception.

The lighter clicks, and clicks, and clicks, until the flame’s resilience defeats the wind. For a moment, I feel the buzz in my hands and ears, the euphoric moment none other can replace. The light of my world is found nestled between my fingers. It always starts off so simple and innocent. Even when the second drag hits me harder, I can’t help but forgive. If ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.

Soon enough, I’m coughing up my words. I’ve smoked it all, down to the filter; a lump in my throat and irritated eyes are all that remain. The worst part is, all I can think about is another chance to have that same, fuzzy feeling back. Just once more. I’ve been on an eternal manhunt, only ever retrieving a mirage of satisfaction. Still, endless cravings persist, even when I know the next hit may be the last.

I hold my palm heavy to my heart, and I can’t decide what the pain is. I hesitantly pin it on the Gold and Turquoise staining my chest. I’ve been told before that smoking rewires your brain, makes you more dependent on fleeting feelings. The first taste is like none other, but I’m beginning to realize the smoke is filled with regret.

I try not to dance to my music of mistakes, but being in the pocket feels too good to stop. Soon enough, I’ve retraced myself back to the fridge. The cold kitchen floor reignites my giddy. I opened the door, only this time, I realized my journey was doomed from the jump. All I want is cereal, but I’m afraid we’re all out of milk.