I wish I had written this.

My cigarette burns my hand, and I choke,
Because I've been smoking a filter for the last minute.
But I don't mind, because it's a small comfort,
A little reminder that I'm still alive and breathing,
A time-tested source of solace for the lonely.
And so are the glass bottles in my cabinet,
And the little plastic baggie in my ashtray,
And the face next to me in my bed,
Whose name, if I ever knew it at all,
I have forgotten.
Yes, these things keep me warm, and quiet,
And let me forget just how alone I am.
But being able to forget is a far cry from being able to remedy,
And my suspicions were right-
This elaborate panacea is a shoddy, imprecise replacement
For the simple comfort of You...
The one whose name I can never forget,
But whose face I can't quite remember.