To this day I smoke cigarettes in their names a collection of men admittedly women that after settling too long sit somewhere between memories and strain. I don't burden myself with the weight of their names though a few of their impressions have become deepening stains bruising, blemishing the favorite spots on my brain. Earliest versions of the story have found personal inches on my skin before I grew up I learned to let it leak in sluicing through veins burning the moments of where I had been in attempts to remind myself of what remains.