The ash tray was stacked like some site of genocide; no loving species could do this to one another, selling these sticks of death for crude and selfish gains.
The cold flakes in that ash tray were how she treated the love she she should have had for herself. She burnt it and left the ashes to become cold.
She had left a few cigarettes to burn themselves out, the cylindrical bodies of those "fallen soldiers of the abyss" becoming ever colder in the ash tray.
We take a god-given plant that grew from blessed rains in healthy soils and make it a killing machine, its grey dust lying cold in the ashtray.
Perhaps a species that does this to themselves, polluting their own lungs and enabling others to do so, was always going to pollute everything else. Earth is our ash tray now.
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