your cigarette

.

The cigarette you rolled before you left
Is still in my room
I wouldn’t smoke
But it’s in my ashtray
And it’s 5am
And you left.

I know if I smoke your roaches and down the dregs of wine
And pass out in front of the computer
With dribbled words
That make less sense in sobriety
Then I will wake
With a room which smells foul
But charmed
And a mouth that tastes like the days
When we drank till dawn
And like socks, cement and fenugreek.

I think that it’s ok
And that I’d rather wake with your discrepancies
Seeping into my walls
Than with an optimism
That will glance at the light
From the shoddily pulled curtains
And bubble like milk left out too long
Tingeing the afternoon
With stale disappointment
And bored opportunity.

I would rather finish your cigarette
And taste bad
And remember
Than sleep soundly under covers of sticky dreams
And try to forget