Smoke Prayers

I drank enough
for the mirror to start telling the truth.

There was a man behind the bar.
He had my eyes,
my debts,
and the rotten manners of a man
who refuses to stop breathing.

I ordered another whisky.

Not to forget.

Forgetting is a luxury
the dead seem to possess rather well.

I smoked until my fingers smelt
like a church after the fire.

Then I began to pray.

I don't know to whom.

Perhaps God.
Perhaps the Devil.
Perhaps that bastard in the mirror
who smiled before I did.

My prayer was simple:

let tomorrow hurt less.

That was when I heard a laugh.

Quiet.

Coming from somewhere
I couldn't bring myself to look.

I put out the cigarette.

The laugh stopped.

I lit another.

It came back.

And then I understood.

Some things don't haunt us.

They simply wait
until we're alone
long enough to realise
they've been here all along.

The smoke drifted towards the ceiling.

I followed it with my eyes.

For a moment,
it seemed to form a doorway.

I didn't dare walk through it.

The worst part
was realising
someone on the other side
appeared to be waiting for me.

And smiling
with my mouth.