Nice(ish)?

For the nice guy, watching cigarette smoke is a delirious affair.

It’s like the thoughts in his head-

chaotic,

yet confined.

It makes him believe in the normalcy of incoherence.

The irony of being nice and being where is,

and he loves it.

It makes him intellectualize the word- ‘nice’-

the last cigarette always does.

The people he cares about,

are busy talking about how nice he is.

But watching the smoke waft over your head,

and seeing light diffuse into it-

slowly, surreally,

makes one want better words for description,

because ‘remarkable’ becomes an unremarkable word to use

for something like this.

His story is not one of disconsolation.

It’s nice like how he is.

It's fleetingly beautiful,

like the smoke he's observing.

Escaping into the darkness,

nothingness engulfing nothingness.

The night shall wear on,

and he shall have to go.

Not to get back to being nice.

No, his work for the day is done.

But to arrange for more of this entertainment.

He does not like the smoke inside him,

unlike others who aren’t just as nice.

He likes to watch it leave.

He loves its promise of being a sight to behold-

not an empty promise this.

It's quite like the promises he’s made,

to people who speak about how nice he is.

The nice guy shall remain- immovably-

nice.