Back then for awhile, the fire-escapes were balconies instead of warning signs. We would share a couple of cigarettes so you could shed the guilt of smoking them alone. Cars would yell past at timed intervals, a welcome reminder that there is always some place else.
We never touched one another. It would not have been proper— though whether it would have been right is now lost to us. We stood on the balcony. Staring over moonlit traffic lines, spaced a breath apart, wondering where it all went. Cigarette ash blew off into the air and we were old enough to feel nostalgic for the first time.
Back then, for awhile, the fire-escapes were balconies instead of warning signs. Convenience store lights glittering on the road and the landlord ready to kick you out—for good, this time. You were getting married and said the traffic lights were giving you mixed signals to stay, then go, then stay again. Cigarette ash blew off into the air and we were in love enough to talk of maybe’s and might-have-been’s. The light flickered green and the traffic sped off to some place else and we sat sharing cigarettes, close, but not quite touching.