It’s cigarettes and coffee

between worries and words.

I could be talking to you

instead of myself,

but you’re allergic to smoke

and I can’t step outside

every 10 minutes.

It’s winter in New York City.

I won’t make any sacrifices.

I’ve come far enough in life

to know when to give in

and I won’t give in to you.

I don’t have to.

The thing inside of me

that can radiate for miles

will bestow its warmth

only on the hands of those

who know how to touch it.

And it shifts.

It twists and turns and

sits angrily deep within me.

It rages against the lampshade

I’ve been living under

since I came back home.

It curses the shade’s weight

and girth, and then

it shakes.

And the only thing I can do to still it

is find a worthy pair of hands,

or bathe in the sun.

But it’s fucking winter in New York City.

So it’s cigarettes and coffee, then,

and conversations with myself.

by Tonianne Druckman