(no subject)

I miss climbing out the kitchen window onto the small porch-like roof area
between buildings, covered with tarpaper, the place I never saw by
daylight. You would share your cigarettes with me, and we would sit on the
wire-backed kitchen chairs, two chubby shy girls ditching the party for
our own shared purposes. I had a small but pure crush on you, on your knee
boots and your false eyelashes and the stubby nails on the hand that held
that burning ember.

How can it be that we only did it -- Twice? Three times? Six cigarettes,
at most?

Sometimes I am so disconnected from what I want. I haven't heard from you
in so long. Those parties, they aren't happening any more. I don't know
your phone number or even your name. I don't know what I would want except
your company, again, your sly grin and your ability to evoke, with just a
cigarette, the sense that we were sharing a secret.

Sometimes I think I still smoke in the hopes that I might see you again.