Ash Tray

It must have been hours now that I have sunk into this arm chair. I raise my eyes to figure out the time on the clock. 3 30?
There is smoke everywhere.
It must have been weeks now that I have ever been out of my apartment. What have I been living on?
Left out cereal, smoke and you! Remnants of you rather…
Is a new day about to dawn? I don’t open my windows anymore.
I raise my eyes again. What is it standing near the door? Is it a woman? Is it you?
Just an apparition I know. The woman I see there is a figment of my subconscious. A bit of my subconscious, thrown outside my mind which so much wants to see you again. For one last time.
Should I run to you again and try to hold you, and then find my hands running through nothing but air?
Should I try to make myself believe that it was actually the handle of the door that shone like something else, the shadow of the curtain looked like something else. And all of them, taken together, looked like all I wanted to see. And all I wanted to see was you. For one last time.
Should I squat on that floor and moan again?
I sit here and pick up my umpteenth cigarette tonight, as your shadow near the door continues to be there. I stretch myself. I close my eyes and let the smoke out my nostrils. This smoke would burn all my organs a day, you would’ve said. So, I have no one to nag me after you’re gone!
The ash tray is under a heap of ash now. Should everything catch fire and end up adding to this heap of ash? Should it?