The words get lost in smudges

Dear Book,
I miss you.

Smoke exhalation, swoosh
Like a louger down a snowy track.

I can hear it in the inhale,
Smoke like a grimy mans hand
Gripping his last penny on the horse track.

Mothers pushing prams,
Wedded baby bliss,
White picket fences undulating into head stones.

Dirty scribbly hands write,
Taking over the white and blue lined void.
Trying to ponder life entirely
In one stroke of a pencil

Scratching word lines on a paper,
Almost meaningless as the scratches themselves.
Words that snake away from me
Evaporating as the scribbles emerge.