What makes you leave your bed and smoke like it's your last at night?
Images of a former love?
Chances you could've take?
Words you could've repeatedly said?
Or committing another bad poem?
And so on, and so on.
There is something about the silence of the night, it could be your hollow body, your exhausted mechanism, or the only hope that you keep holding onto.
How many cigarettes does it really take?
How many hours?
How many scenarios playing back and forth?
It stops when you don't realize that there are still so many questions left for you or for someone or for something to answer.
And in the daylight, you deal with all that's unimportant.
In the night, there's nothing more important than dealing with knowing what it takes to sleep rather than exhaustion.