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clearly i've developed a fascination with cigarettes
and hand-holding and cheek-kisses,

something about thinking about him on starry nights,

when i can draw lines connecting his initials to mine

because he was a cancer and i was a cancer,

and my horoscope told me to keep him close to my heart

so he could peel back my skin and my ribs and my lungs

to steal my words right from my chest

he smelled like Newports and hours-old cologne,

but sometimes it was his smoke mingled with a fresh peppermint

that drew me to his lips and made me wonder

if i could get addicted to the taste of his nicotine

he made me want him next to me, to lay my hand on his chest

while our minds soared into the ocean of clouds and birds above us

and we stared at each other with our eyes closed,

letting our lips speak in a wordless rhythm

that somehow contained three syllables.