Three a.m. in separate rooms across the city: our cigarettes glow like signal beacons, not quite reaching. We have hurt each other, this time beyond forgiving. Somewhere a siren wails too late for help. Our hurt crouches howling in a dark corner, waits for nightfall to keep us awake. We fill our emptiness with smoke, and think how once a late-night cigarette was shared in the silence of a single room.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com