I can almost picture it,
you, so small and so powerful,
scratching the words of an angry night
with no cigarettes on a wall.
And I can almost picture it,
but not quite.
Was there a lamp on?
I imagine so.
If so, then what color?
In the scenario entrapped inside my brain
it is a small purple lamp,
place upon a desk, or a night stand.
A bed is also in my dream of your room,
as there undoubtedly is in real life.
And in my dream it is covered with a light,
soft green that goes uncannily well with the shade of the lamp.
And the walls, well in my mind they are white.
And those words,
the words of an angry night with no cigarettes
are scratched upon that white wall with a charcoal pencil.
In a neat handwriting that angles down a bit as it goes from left to right.
And this is probably not so in real life
but that matters not.

Tonight, is a happy night,
spent with many cigarettes.
Therefore,
I this poem will not be written on a wall.
It was not be cast upon by a purple hue.
Nor will it be highlighted by a white wall.

'Tis well.