She found two packs of cigarettes hidden between binders in his backpack, and his ashtray full of cigarette butts. The cabinets were empty and the sink was full of dishes.

Her heart dries out, cracks. She can't cry out. She wants him to hold her the way he used to.

It won't stop raining. The city tries to overpower the sound of the kitchen clock ticking, but the paper walls and cellophane doors seem to amplify the incense of mother natures smoke still lingering in the air.

Chain-smoking cigarettes like a machine, he doesn't spare her a glance. There were bombs going off inside her chest, her ever-dormant chest, and she wonders if he's noticed yet. And she still hopes her words send telegrams to the farthest corners of his admiration.

She wants to be the cigarette that is ever present in his slim fine hands, and the smoke that fills, coils in his lungs.

Now whiskey goes down like fire,

and they went down

like buildings.