i stood besides the grass on an empty crossroad the ants feed on the remnants of an empty can
i know i was quitting but not immediately if i did that i'd get mad i was more myself with a cigarette
the lighter clicks for my cherry scented stick of white i'd take two per two days three if i'm extra pathetic i meander through my thoughts while i stand like running through a road without lifting your feet the little details hurtle around
on how blue the grass is on how tall the sky grew compared to the last time i was there on how organized the ants go about compared to the giant beside them the smoke was whiter than the clouds that covered a pleasant day
i stood like i was waiting not for anything or anyone but waiting maybe for the rain or a car or that high i paid for the loser smoked because his life was garbage laying on the floor to be feasted by insects i feel my life was not right only because i knew it felt wrong i must have tasted it before to know the difference
was it the times that school ended was it the weekends between work or that afternoon with a girl or the **** we had after was it the memory of a feeling who's images were forgotten but lingers nonetheless was it from a child, or a lover, or a drunk chainsmoker was it even real or true
the stick was left to its dead inch the wait was over and i parted from the ants
the putrid smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey breath feels like home. His arms felt like home, too. I knew him as the boy who’d party all night and make plans with me the next day only to sleep the whole time. I knew him as ****** noses from ******* and the young emphysemic cough that would **** a small part of me every time I heard it. I knew him as that big, stupid ******* smile. I knew him as the boy who’d ride his bike to my house but would always be too worn out to ride his bike with me. I knew him as far too charming for his own good. I knew him as perfectly imperfect. I know him as cold and unempathetic. I know him as the boy who refused to get on the phone with me for closure. I know him as unstable. I know him as manipulative. I know myself as someone who will never be more important than *******. I know myself as someone who will never be more important than cigarettes. I know myself as just another doll who was tossed to the side by a child who got bored. The fetor of a coffin nail and the acidic aroma of Highlands Red still reminds me of him— but only the version of him that I knew.
Standing smoking under the front light looking out into the night on the step of another flat share which for a while I can dare to call home wondering when I will own a place of my own where I can kick up a stink or pile up the sink, where I can strike a light, where I can curse as loud as I like, where I don't have to take myself outside and stand staring at nothing with nothing but my key and the glow of my roll-your-own for company.
On my way home i see men standing outside their no smoking allowed rented digs having a silent ciggy.