The ashtray is overflowing again.
Lipstick-smudged filters,
crimson ghosts of neon nights
and jagged dreams.
Some cigarettes thin and elegant—
the kind that look like they belong
to women who slipped out of high heels,
blouses half undone,
bent over at the motel dresser,
taking the world on hard and fast from behind.
Others rolled by hand,
zigzag paper, uneven ends,
burned down to the nub
like they didn’t care how they ended.
No filter at all on a few—
just grit and paper
going straight to the lungs,
burning what’s left of the soul.
Ash piled like minutes
that forgot they were supposed to move on.
A spill of whiskey beside it,
caught in the mahogany grain,
a small, perfect pond
on a ragged shoreline.
Nobody remembers who got here first,
or who stayed last.
Just the ashtray
collecting versions of people
who thought the night would never end.
Dust settling in
and all of us
drifting through it.