habits die harder in nightmares

   
It was like one of those  
cigarette dreams where you smoke  
(or drink or break your  
sobriety)  
and get pissed at    
yourself    
but do it anyway  
Filthy habits always seem  
to die    
harder in dreams  
   
So it was with us  
last night    
   
We stood on  
opposite sides  
of a cursed door  
foreheads pressed  
eyes closed  
palms flat  
   
as if we could  
transmogrify  
the sick regret  
to anything  
anything  
else  
through the pores  
of space    
   
and I could feel you  
so fucking close  
the sawdust in your air  
tickled the back of  
my throat  
   
and the door was  
almost    
gone as you  
almost touched  
my face    
before we    
   
almost  
   
   
I woke softly,  
curled on my side,  
dark grief eating the  
edge of my slumber  
as I wiped my  
damp cheeks  
and reached  
for a pack of smokes  
that hasn’t been there  
in years  
   
But filthy habits  
and dreams  
and all.  
   
I sat up and took a shaky breath  
and rubbed my left palm with  
my right thumb  
to rid the feel of your hand  
on the wood  
from my    
fading memory    
   
and the way my  
heart ached  
in the pre-dawn gloam  
was just a craving  
from another  
habit  
I needed to kick  
   
I licked my lips  
and hated the    
new tear trickling    
to the edge of my chin  
because I    
felt your    
forehead pressed  
eyes closed  
palms flat  
on the other side  
of this cursed door    
   
as if we could  
transmogrify  
the sick regret  
to anything  
more    
than a cigarette dream  
   
I went back to bed
but stared at the ceiling  
afraid to sleep again    
knowing    
   
filthy    
habits  
die harder    
as nightmares