i count how many i lost to my lungs 8 yesterday not too bad.
i make my way downstairs and meet her behind our building she's a quiet girl thin makes me feel like an avalanche when I talk and all we have in common is our index and ******* clutching softly to yellow filters
i can't hear her all i can pick up is the sound of the ember engulfing more of the tobacco the heat crawling closer to my fingers it's all i can see or hear or feel
we burn down to the bone we remember each other crush the boagie beneath shoes freckled with the scars of cigarettes past
our collective head rush too severe to take the stairs i press the button to call the elevator and complain about how long it takes