charlotte, 3:20 AM

it couldn’t be darker.
the light at the end of my cigarette
looks like hope instead of death.

i am again staring at the keyboard
with no idea what to write,
knowing only
that writing seems like a good idea
in a night so black that
a promise of cancer
seems like a beacon.

it must look different from the outside:
there’s water and wine here,
a lover sleeping nearby
with a stillness
which reminds me of a moment
before a door opens.
daylight is not far off,
and there’s a poem forming on the screen.

the breathing in the bed
calls me, but i will light
one more cigarette before i go,
giving me a quick dose of
my other chosen poison
before i turn back toward my life.