Early Morning

3 A.M.: The Witching Hour, so it’s called.
And so it is for me, the Which-ing hour.
Which one, so many choices to be made.
Another smoke?
Another drink?
Another dream?
But sleep seems to be the last thing these lids of mine have in mind,
And my bottle of Jack on the bedside table is almost as dry as my mouth.
So I pull out a fresh pack pall malls from the dresser drawer,
And light a new one.
There’s something to be said about breathing in poison,
A sweetness interlaced with the sharpness.
I cough, waving a cloud of smoke away from my eyes,
And take another drag.
And another.
And another�"
This could take all night.
I am tormented by loneliness.
A longing emptiness that resoantes,
Penotrates,
Like laying across a cold alabaster floor,
All warmth once held in your skin now flees,
Sinks.
Down,
   Down,
      Down.

When did I get here again?
The familiar feeling
Of being a stranger in my own skin?