In The Lanes
After hours of walking the lanes cigarette smoke climbs into the void. Tap water runs under my feet. Neon lights tremble in the puddles — needles in my eyes. Men smoke around me. Sweat gathers on their foreheads. Cold hangs from their mouths. They crush cigarettes beneath their shoes. One burnt stub looks at me — I’m over. I take the last inhale as if it could prove I’m still here. I sit facing the lane, asking nothing. It answers anyway — moonless loneliness. There’s paper in my pocket. I take it. Light it. Smoke. And the lanes feel what I feel — and what I don’t.