she texts me
i check my pack
6 cigarettes left

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