Climbing six flights of stairs
to smoke on the roof, alone.
Cold seeping through your white robe,
thawing ice soaking your feet,
bitter wind whipping your face.
Cursing as even the cigarettes
refuse to light.
Open space surrounding you,
you, so close to being swallowed
by that endless black chasm in the sky.
Feeling little and alone and afraid and lost.
Watching the tiny figures of the people
shuffling by beneath you,
each in his own little world,
preoccupied with his own little thoughts.
Each person a dusty book
hidden in library shelves never traversed
Touching, so close to those around them
yet impossible to open and read.
Remembering your own people--
boys and cuddling;
fleeting moments of joy
that fade after the sun rises.
Throwing out the stubs,
Putting yourself
your self
your self
back together.
Rejoining happy friends
with a sad pretend smile,
Dizzy from the smoke,
heart still cold,
but slowly
gradually
regaining warmth
and strength.