a cigarette at 2am

there’s a stagnance in these walls

this house.

ceiling fans,

the only source of movement

in the air,

recycling.

over and over,

blades churning stagnance,

thick like molasses

and yet we smile and say good morning as we pour our coffee side by side

just like yesterday.

optimism in our mugs, our tones

our cheeks,

though we haven’t felt the winter in days.

in the dark, in the silence,

I hear each rotation clearly

cutting through stale breath.

I can’t sleep.

am I breathing?

where does the carbon dioxide go?

Groundhog Day.

I need some air.

how long have I been here?

2am,

a cigarette,

I crack the window.