I think of my last cigarette.
I smoked it on my fire-escape in Brooklyn.
Across the street a woman got dressed with her curtains open. I felt shame for smoking and accidentally becoming a peeping Tom. She was vaguely human shaped, but I knew she was naked for the brief moments I sat there watching.
A took a final drag and tossed the butt onto the greasy cement landing of the restaurant on the first floor.
I watched the filter smoke for a minute deciding I was more frustrated from having just smoked then satisfied.
I haven’t smoked in five years.
But I think smoking destroyed my ability to ever be satisfied.
So now I run mile after mile hoping one day to find… something.