I’ve Taken Up Smoking

Voices float up from the streets below,

though none of them could ever compare to yours.

They call to me, asking me to join them in the nightlife,

to see the city, see the endless artificial stars they’ve decorated it with.

But I ignore them.

It’s not worth it if you’re not there.

I’ve taken up smoking, not because I want or need to,

but just because you used to,

and the smell of the smoke gives the illusion that you’ve only just left.

I often talk to the portrait of you on the wall

(the only tangible thing you left me),

sometimes for so long that I can almost believe that the painted lips smile back at me,

and the flower held in your hand is being extended towards me as a gift,

something of value, rather than a prop.

But in the end, when I finally stop dreaming and open my eyes,

the portrait is lifeless.

In the end, smoking is just a time-filler.

In the end, the city is a far better place than here.

And in the end, I know you’re not coming back.