It’s funny how addiction brings
us to a place so many times—

an alleyway, a bathroom stall,
a lonely nighttime balcony.

Outside I stand in winter snows
all blowing in with violence,

and smoke my cigarettes alone
and sip the whiskey from my cup.

It’s here I think about the past—
regrets resounding in my brain,

the loved ones lost to death and chance
and all the chances come and gone.

And every time, it’s all the same—
the muted horns in foggy night,

the couples walking, huddled close,
the taxicabs all chugging by.

As close as this whole world might seem,
my habits send it far away,

and snow builds up upon my coat
as I am left with just my mind.

A bottle clasped inside one hand,
I search for ways to leave this life.

The sirens echo off the walls
of buildings fading into night.