Fourth Floor Confession

Fourth floor. A cigarette bleeds in the air.
Across from me — a bag, my darling sleeps there.
My cat. The one who once purred soft and low.
The one I buried deep and let go.
 
I blew out the smoke — it faded like breath.
All that I had, I failed to protect from death.
I left her. I couldn't warn her in time.
I'm the one who couldn't carry her pain — or mine.
 
The purring is gone. Only rain on the glass.
The smell of a wet window, and the past.
I smoked, and the whole world felt hollow and wrong.
And I in it — emptier than any song.
 
No tears, no prayers. Only a cold, still floor.
Where puddles go black, too broken to cry anymore.
I left her myself. I'm the one who must wait.
I'm the one. And no guilt can ever abate.
 
One drag — and the sky turns to ash and to gray.
The city — a dead, empty garden at bay.
I'm the one who didn't save. I'm the one who can't smile.
I'm the one who's not needed. The one who's to blame all the while.
 
And if there's a hell — it's not in fire below.
It's here: on the fourth floor, by the window.
Where you smoke, and you know you'll burn to the core.
And beside you — a bag. And the silence. And more.