A lonely cigarette walk at night.

The air is crisp and cold. The ground shimmers with frost. I’m pacing around on a frozen sidewalk. My left hand holds the burning filter of a Parliament. My right hand rests on my phone in my jacket pocket. I walk back and forth. My left hand swings with my step. My right hand drums restlessly on my phone, as if it feels there is some task it must accomplish. Do I pull out my phone? A constant outlet for pent up emotions I’m never sure how to properly convey to the correct source. I pat my phone once reassuringly and leave it alone, taking my hand out of my pocket. I throw the cigarette butt into the slush and turn towards the door. I’m at the far end of the walkway from my destination. I rub my hands together partially for warmth and partially to busy my hand and prevent it from wandering back to my phone. I walk back home with a mind full of messages never sent.


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