smoke enough cigarettes for your loved ones to be

slightly concerned,

their breath on your shoulder as they tell you

“you should 

stop.”

don’t.

not until after you’ve borrowed a light

from a beautiful boy at a bus stop

and talked to him about the songs that make you cry

and the strength of the dollar and

the state of your lungs.

then tell him you love him,

wait a week to learn his last name,

leave him, his curly hair, his open palms, sprawled on a white

futon that doesn’t have properly fitted sheets.

give up cigarettes in exchange for wine

and drink enough to forget him.