filters.

we walk hand in hand

after we’ve left the bar

with a couple drinks in us.

if i don’t think about it too much,

it almost feels real.

i do this every time.

we laugh at the same things

on the way home, taking turns

putting our lips on the shared

cigarette. they say you can get

to know someone over a smoke,

no one’s ever done it with me

like this before. you tell me stories

of a home i’ve never been to,

but i have a good imagination.

i’m focusing on how you inhale

and exhale when i pass it back to you,

and i can’t help but wonder how many

times this has been done before.

this happens every time.

the stories i want to spill stop

short at the end of my tongue,

blocked by the cigarette

we’re bound to finish.

i stomp on it, along with the

rest of myself that i wish

i could put out for good.

i take your hand and lead you

up the stairs, leaving the filter

behind us, i won’t be using it next time.