i have seen two people in me
growing up almost like twin ghosts
sharing the same skin—
one in his late teens,
learning how to light up a cigarette
with trembling fingers,
coughing repeatedly after every smoke, eyes watery,
not knowing he was lighting
a slow-burning fuse inside of his chest.
the other
in his late twenties,
coughing too—
but in a different kind.
it’s not awkward or embarrassing,
it’s deep, guttural,
a rattle that sounds
more like an old metal falling apart.
he doesn’t flinch.
by now he’s used to it.
he’s mastered the rhythm—
inhale, exhale, decay.
sometimes they pass each other in the mirror.
the boy with something to prove
and the man with lungs full of ghosts.
they keep mum. they don’t talk.
what would they even say?
on some translucent nights,
the man tries to quit.
even crushes a half-smoked cigarette
between his fingers,
watching the ash
scatter like pieces of a promise
he never kept.
but morning comes,
and the silence between breaths
becomes too loud,
so he lights up another cigarette.
and i silently watch—
both of them—
this boy and this man,
sharing the same lungs,
burning the same fire,
carving themselves into smoke
one cough, one cigarette at a time.
©Mohit Yenugwar