Wasted Cigarettes

It is almost cold and almost midnight

And I am on a low balcony pockmarked

With cigarette stubs, making small talk

To another unwitting, almost bored stranger.

We are speaking of how I have never 

Quite learned how to smoke. He notices

That I have some trouble holding in the

Fumes and nursing them in my alveoli.

And we laugh about how terribly funny

It is, because of all the toxins that I have

Hoarded in my lungs, like the condescending

Whispers of success stories and the 

Deafening screams of selfish anxiety, like

The towering masts of unattainable futures

and unrequited affection, the wispy blanket

Of cigarette tar would be the least poisonous.