Night Cap For An Insomniac

it's useless pointing the finger now.

a thick layer of smoke quickly fills the air,
exhaled outward by tireless mouths yapping,
the last whisp of the summer evening breeze pushing the ghastly, 
soul-less mist into my face –
the once-cloud-like shape bursting and dispersing and 
trickling down the sides of my slouched figure...

i would almost call the habit disgusting 
if i wasn't also under this spell of smoke; 
yet tonight, 
i almost don't notice it as i reach for the glass
("one last time," i tell myself...)
and consume the bittersweet taste of truth
with one quick gulp. 

i think it's funny, how their voices fill this once-quiet space,
screaming for validation, as i reluctantly pretend to understand (in pity)...
i'm hearing everything they say:
how everything lacks something,
how something is too full of one thing,
how someone isn't there,
how someone else is, but isn't right...
how hoping and waiting is often unrewarded,
how permanence sucks,
how trust is overrated,
how faith in miracles took the last train out with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus
how good guys finish last,
how bad guys rule on earth but burn in hell,
and 
how most of us plainly just don't know shit.      

though that's not the end of it,
i've shut the voices out by now.
i can't possibly deal with all that now.    

i'm too tired, myself.

my eyes are fixed on the cigarette that's quickly devouring itself 
between my fingers.
i almost don't feel the sting of the burn it offers
as the struggling spark of flame consumes the filter.
i've been staring at it for quite some time now,
as the line of ash clinging for dear life proves.
i'm alarmed for a second, but i remind myself this was coming:
yet i struggle for one last intoxicating puff, 
and hope it gets me through the night. 

i almost never have an extra pack on me. 
and this night is no different.

i quickly offer polite nods and excuses 
from people i don't know from adam,
almost bashfully making my way through a maze of 
tables and chairs, 
thinking to myself:
"that was a pretty potent combination..."

the train of thought is interrupted by the blankness
of the commute home (i really don't remember it, at all...)
and i collapse on the couch and continue the thought through the deafening silence:
"...so how is it that i'm wide awake?"

there are things i will remember.
there are things i will forget.
i miss you. 

and so will the ungodly hours of the morning,
until the sun rises,
and forces me to lay quiet and still.