don't stop smoking

the ceiling fan cooled the empty old room to no avail. no furniture, no decorations, not even moving boxes filled our southern crash pad. for some fresh air, we had to squeeze through the window to venture the roof where he could light up. after he yanked open the wooden-latch that so tenaciously locked the window shut, he took the tiny blue lighter he bought at the gas station from his pants pocket, lit a parliament that he swore he'd quit by the end of the summer and watched the smoke disappear into the darkest wiry sky. we talked about where we've been so far and where we'd be going in the next couple weeks. boston came up and we wondered how it would be. i'd been there once since i had moved away. i'd actually already been thinking of it since i saw that empty room. it reminded me of my bare bedroom, sleeping on a hardwood floor and climbing out the window to the fire escape to watch other people smoke. i wanted, now, to stop talking, to stop sitting at the fuel pump and sustaining other people's habits; to stop feeling guilty. but i kept talking and kept feeling homesick for a place i hardly knew. i imagined it as a place that i could go back to, but i knew that was not true. it was more important to me than i could ever be to it. and out of my frustration i could yell to all my friends from this roof to stop smoking, but he would be the only one to hear my pretentious opinion disguised in my slang as good advice. an empty stigma. he doesn't want to hear my mouth spilling with concealed nervousness for the reality of my instant world. a false pretense. and boston is just a city that is thirteen hours away. i see this in the picture that is painted in front of me as i stare off at the lit up parking garage, a white and red blinking radio tower and one lonely smokestack spitting out nothing, feeling disappointed; a real dead scene.