He lit up a cigarette.
His worries and problems haunted him.
He could never forget.
His indescressions were eating him.
His smile ever present.
He tried his hardest to be polite.
There was a strange presence
In his apartment that Autumn night.
The cigarette burned;
It would be his last one he decided.
He felt like dirt,
The fault of the colleagues he hated.
He adjusted his tie,
Combed his thinning middle-aged hair,
Wiped his tired eyes
And headed up the flight of stairs.

The first step is the hardest;
The first cut is the deepest;
The last smoke is the foulest.

He stops on the twelth step
and looks around.
Every direction is a long
way down.
Blackness behind him;
Blackness in front.
Everywhere is dark when
you're hiding from hurt.

The night is cold and beautiful.
Peaceful.
He doesn't say a word.
He doesn't sob or sigh.
He just walks to the edge;
And falls.