it's not really something i think about anymore,
she said.*
     i hate this tile floor -
smokers downstairs hijacking my sleep
with nicotine nightmares and a dry mouth
awake tastes like ash - black - i nod
- smile - as we pass each other in the halls
begin to wonder, why life
is dependent on their preferred method of death?
it's fine -
because at night
i reciprocate as i read my poetry aloud