surmount my miscounts

it’s the third time I light the same cigarette tonight,
it wont keep lightning,
not even to kill me.
I guess it’s just not my night.

Its the fourth time I delete the poem I try to write,
for the cigarette that I’m trying to light again,
and again,
and again.
Until it goes completely wasted,
and I have sensed only a bit of it.
I guess it’s just not my night.

It’s the fifth time I’m trying to leave my window open,
but the wind won’t let it,
it pushes the window near to its place,
and leaves me hanging for air.
I guess it’s just not my night.

It’s the seventh,
no,
the eighth, no.
the ninth,
the tenth….
I’ve lost count of the times I’m trying to keep myself sane tonight.
I’ve lost count of the shakings I feel in miliseconds of time.
I’ve lost count of the nails I’m biting tonight,
my mom is afraid someday I’ll start biting my fingers.
Who knows,
maybe tonight, I’ll start biting my own fingers,
and not loose count of it.

Another cigarette wasted,
another window closed,
another nail on the floor,
another night I’ve lost count of…

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