(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwvVhXItl1w Please listen while you read!)
Ah, Ikebukuro, a city that never sleeps.
It ebbed and flowed with the river of time, ever changing. Fresh new faces always entered the arena: some stayed while others departed. You always kept your eyes on it, a humble bystander never involving yourself in chaos, but simply a fascinated observer.
You burrowed the butt of your cigarette into the ash tray and watched the thin, grey strand of smoke disappear into the clouded atmosphere of the bar. You listened to the low, jazzy music emitting around the room, the soft chatters of customers, the occasional blaring of T
You sit alone in the darkness
On the cold tiles
In your second story bathroom floor
And watch the orange glow
Of the cigarette light up the room.
The thought that someday
The white walls will be stained with
Nicotine, ash, and tar
brings a melancholy smile to your face.
Sitting near the open window,
You watch the smoke disappear
in the bitter cold breeze,
and you remember.
You remember the time
Of your first real fag
And the girl who sat beside you
On that cold autumn day.
The girl who wordlessly watched
The ashes fall into the dying grass.
The girl who refused a hit
But insisted on breathing in
Your second hand smoke.