I drank enough
for the mirror to start telling the truth.
There was a man behind the bar.
He had my eyes,
my debts,
and the rotten manners of a man
who refuses to stop breathing.
I ordered another whisky.
Not to forget.
Forgetting is a luxury
the dead seem to possess rather well.
I smoked until my fingers smelt
like a church after the fire.
Then I began to pray.
I don't know to whom.
Perhaps God.
Perhaps the Devil.
Perhaps that bastard in the mirror
who smiled before I did.
My prayer was simple:
let tomorrow hurt less.
That was when I heard a laugh.
Quiet.
Coming from somewhere
I couldn't bring myself to look.
I put out the cigarette.
The laugh stopped.
I lit another.
It came back.
And then I understood.
Some things don't haunt us.
They simply wait
until we're alone
long enough to realise
they've been here all along.
The smoke drifted towards the ceiling.
I followed it with my eyes.
For a moment,
it seemed to form a doorway.
I didn't dare walk through it.
The worst part
was realising
someone on the other side
appeared to be waiting for me.
And smiling
with my mouth.