We smoked.
Half a cigar, shared between brothers, that one of us brought back from Cuba, leaning
on the cars of strangers. The three of us friends since. . .
forever, as far as I'm concerned.
We stood, hesitant to talk, just as
I'm hesitant to
type.
Eyes averted, we whispered,
as not to be heard by each other, about
beginnings and endings. Slow inhales,
even slower exhales, half of which we wished
would get caught up in the stagnant
air that still holds me in that moment. I cracked
jokes, because that's what I do, and they both
laughed, uncomfortably,
eyes meeting only smoke that is still slow
to dissipate. Conversation cut by
coughs, we smoked
all that there was and then some,
scared to retreat, to return knowing
what we now know.