In an alleyway where the darkness is velvety, I am your cigarette holder. Not the cigarette. I don’t have the privilege of being the bad habit you can’t pass up. I am just the silver sliver that holds up what you really crave. It’s cold for a spring evening and bright, too — bright enough for the moonlight to make your cigarette holder shine like noise in an otherwise perfectly black photograph. You can see the glimmer from the sidewalk where the smoke is rising from the grates, but who would look at that when there’s the burning glow to catch their eyes instead?