"I don't smoke," she says as
I hand her a cigarette.
We collide at that table
swapping stories about regret
until the the lights have been on
for too long, and we must leave.

I know her struggle, those
familiar claws not long gone
from my own back; still
falling, wings not yet drawn,
I try to be a solid rock on which
she can rest in her throes.

Old souls unite for a brief
attempt to search the shadows
of ourselves, waterfalls of
doubt, browsing the meadows
of questions in our minds, waiting
for the rain to bloom us into answers.