I open my sliding door and leave my inhibitions scattered on my bedroom floor.
Up the flight of stairs, I take a seat on the edge of the roof facing the city.

It’s cold.

And if it wasn’t for this cigarette I’d be inside staring at my phone.
I count the lights on six six west bellevue place,
A building I loved but never been in.
I like smoking in the cold because I can never tell whats my breath and which is the smoke.
I look up at the deep blue sky and count stars of crystal white.
I tap my cigarette over the edge of the roof and watch as the flakes of ash meet its snowy doom.
I can hear the people below,
And the loud music coming from my room.
I see clouds of smoke,
And try to make a tune out of the car honks.
I pinch the cherry of my cigarette and hear it sizzle in the snow.

I take a look at my favorite building, smell the burning firewood, and feel the cold seek refuge in the warmth of my body before tossing this left over tobacco in an empty bottle of red wine, i call an ashtray.

Back in the warmth of my room,
In bed and curled,

I think about how if it wasn’t for that cigarette,

i wouldn’t see the world.