A Last Cigarette

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.

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