she wrote her number on a cigarette.
three days later I inhale smoke as the numbers burn away.
the pile of ash on the ledge of the balcony is the only proof that she ever existed.
if she doesn't exist then I can't miss her.
I didn't lose her because she was never here.

but the smoke feels heavy in my lungs
and that's proof enough.
it felt as though those digits were swirling around,
choking me
so that with every cough I ingrained the memory of her deeper in my mind.

*she's gone. she's gone. she's gone.