He talked about being high up in the sky, metal and heaven colliding. Construction at such heights would cause anyone to take up smoking, he said. And so he did. He smoked at least a pack a day for ten years. 3,650 days. But were some of those years leap years? I don't know my own calendar. I can only offer estimates.
We define our lives by our injuries. We desecrate what we don't understand. We climb for the view but forget to take it in. We forget the exhale.
I forget what the joke was, but it had to do with a dressing room, one bathing suit, and two Dada artists. It was one of those jokes that never really required a laugh, just an "a-ha!" Our entire history together was one a-ha after another. We created scenarios in order to live. We created tragedies in order to feel.
Your bones are roads leading to the river of your veins. Let me lie down, one more time, and see if I float.
It didn't end well. It didn't end poorly, either. In fact, it didn't quite end at all. It was left suspended, abandoned. You drove me home one night when I refused to open my eyes. You left me blind and comfortable and with enough cash in my purse to buy groceries the next day. I had to choose between a pint of milk and a pack of cigarettes, but I wasn't a smoker. I never needed to be. Besides, I had black coffee waiting at home.
I never learned the key to your spine. There are signs I will never know, hidden mines belonging to someone else. You go ahead and live your life up there, I'll continue to find my roots down here.