i rub the shower gel under my breasts
as hot steam crawls up the glass
and sweet, stinging
cigarette smoke floats up through the drain;
in the hotel lobby downstairs, thin ribbons
of smoke curl up to the ceiling
from men drinking cocktails and popping
wasabi-covered nuts onto their tongues between sips,
and three floors above them as i breathe in the smoke
i can't help but think about that time
we went to my place on an early-autumn morning,
when you kissed me on the mattress,
inching your palms up my spine;
you stood up next to the window,
asked if you could light a cigarette, and i said
no, you'll stink up the whole block.
maybe, if i'd let you, a girl in the shower
a few floors above
would've been rubbing your smoke into her skin.
or maybe, if i'd let you,
you would've stayed a bit longer.